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Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books

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Copyright ©2003 Louisa Trent

First Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge, January, 2003

SOME ROUGH EDGE SMOOTHIN’ is a contemporary erotic romance, featuring a tough Latino
hero with a heart made of mush, Tomas Ruiz, and a practical Anglo heroine with a heart made cynical,
Seraphina Norris.

When two adversaries, a former missionary lady and a town bad-ass, hook up to get what each of them
wants, a decidedly practical, yet oh-so-erotic, arrangement results.

...sometimes sex is all a man and a woman really have in common, and sometimes that's more than
enough ...

CHAPTER ONE

It was Monday morning, and just like he did every Monday morning, Tomas Ruiz stopped by to chat
with his best girl before heading out the trailer door to the site.

“You're looking mucho muy hot today, Myra,” he offered with a slow and easy smile.

“Humph,” his administrative assistant-slash-receptionist replied, not bothering to glance up from her
newspaper read.

This blatant disregard on the part of his employee was nothing new. He might be the boss, but the title
was strictly of the figurehead variety. They both knew who was calling the shots in this outfit and it sure
as hell wasn't him.

Ignoring him as usual, Myra picked up the phone, the one that had been ringing off the hook since his
receptionist's two-hour late arrival that morning, and grumbled “Ruiz Construction” into the receiver.

Now, this was a good sign. When his right-hand woman was feeling real stressed, calls never got
answered at all. But that was a whole other story-

“Yeah, he's here, Borowski,” Myra said with her industrial strength sandpaper croak. “No, you can't
speak to him. Why? Because I said so, that's why. Got wax accumulation in those big ears of yours?
You should maybe try one of those cotton-tipped swabs, then call back later. Kisses.”

With a wet-sounding smooch, the receiver got unceremoniously dumped on the desk.

Tomas winced. The woman in the faux leopard-skin sweats was the love of his life, but man, most days
Myra wasn't exactly sweetness and light. On her bad days, she was downright unpleasant. Ornery came
to mind. But...if someone was unfortunate enough to have landed on her shitlist, as poor Borowski
obviously had, she was unapologetically surly.

Whoa, yeah. Myra could be gruff and abrasive when she wanted to be. Assertive as all hell too. And
those were her warm and fuzzy qualities. Dwelling on her less than endearing personality traits was
something Tomas just didn't want to do-

“Ya know something?” his recalcitrant employee muttered above the whir of the dumped phone, the one
still chillin’ on her desk.

See, now here was the thing: For the most part, Myra's questions tended to be rhetorical in nature, as
she didn't give two shites about anybody else's opinion, especially his. But to be polite, or maybe just to
listen to the sound of his own voice for a change, he went along for the ride.

“What's that, Myra?” he queried.

His adored-one kicked back in her semi-reclining chair, propped a pair of size ten, extra-wide,
orthopedic shoes on an overturned rubbish receptacle-thus revealing the chronic wrinkles around the
ankles of her support hose-and mused, “I've been thinkin'...”

Uh-oh. It was never good news when one of Myra's pearls of wisdom got prefaced with that particular
segue.

“...that Ruiz Construction could use some improvement, you know, image-wise. It's high time the main
offices moved out of this trailer and into one of those swanky new office condos in Fenton's business
district.”

Tomas let out a groan of affectionate exasperation. He worshipped every disagreeable bone in Myra
Samuel's grumpy body, but when she started spouting stuff like ‘image’ and ‘moving’ at him it was time
to put his foot down.

He was doing just that, his boot was lowering, when Myra's cuticle scissors came leaping out of her
desk drawer, and she squealed, real excited-like, “Oh, boy! Lookee here! A thirty-five cent off coupon
on kitty litter!” And his foot got stuck right where it was, cuz no way, ese, was he stomping all over
Myra's bubbly enthusiasm.

Instead, he gently told the born-again collector as she clipped happily away, newspaper scraps flying,
“But Myra, you don't own a cat.”

Seemed like a reasonable reminder to him. After all, someone had to tell her that not everything in life's
worth saving. Some stuff just ain't salvageable and should be thrown out. Right? Otherwise, you get stuck
with things you don't need and no on else wants. Like, clipped kitty litter coupons, for example. Or
raggedy old photos of strangers. Or stray animals. Or hopeless people everyone else has long since given
up on-

Except Myra.

That woman never gave up on no one. Un-un. For some reason, hopeless was a word that never had
made its way into her working vocabulary. He could personally attest to that. When he was just a
snot-nosed kid, on the fast track to a locked juvey facility, he got himself added to her motley menagerie
of useless treasures. It was the luckiest day of his sorry life.

Clipping done, leftover newsprint scraps brushed onto the floor, cuticle scissors tossed back in the
drawer, Myra stared him down, the heat from her glare just ‘bout singeing his eyebrows.

“So what, I don't own a cat?” she asked belligerently. “I happen to like cats. I've got some that visit me
regularly. Ya know somethin', Tomas? I think you should get yourself a cat.”

“Can't,” he replied. “The trailer's too small. Got no room for a cat.”

“You could have a small cat if you didn't live in a trailer,” she volunteered, though to his recollection he
had never once asked for her opinion. Why would he? If there was one subject he didn't need her advice
on it was how to get himself a little pussy.

Myra plunked her morning's work-ie; the clipped coupon she would never use-on top of a purely
decorative file cabinet with the rest of the coupons she would also never use. When the dust settled, she
continued leading him around by the nose.

“Besides,” says she, referring back to the ‘image’ and ‘moving’ issues, “you need a real office if you
wanna make a serious impression on prospective clients.”

A wise woman was Myra. She was most likely right-on about him moving his address uptown...

...except when it came to women...or office locations...he liked the downtown scene. Downtown was
the happ'ning place to be. When you consider it, most of the action starts downtown. For that reason, he
liked going downtown, staying downtown, spending a lot of quality time downtown whenever he got the
opportunity. You might even say he was a downtown kind of guy.

There was something else too, another reason for him to want to stay put: A move uptown wouldn't
change who he was inside. After all, you can take the man out of the barrio, but you cannot take the
barrio out of the man.

Or some other real deep saying like that.

Sayings like that were important. Even essential. He trusted in sayings. Without them, the whole of
Western Civilization as we know it would collapse. Couldn't have that happening. It was an awesome
responsibility keeping sayings alive and well, but he intended to do his part. Which, in a round about way,
was his way of explaining why Tomas Ruiz of Ruiz Construction was staying put on the Southside where
he was comfortable.

On the Southside, a melting pot of ethnicities made up the neighborhoods. The pulse of different
languages and peoples and cultures all beat in a blended rhythm. That rhythm was his rhythm, cuz hell, he
was a blend too.

His papa was right off the raft Havana; unlike his mama's people who'd made their ocean trip a few
years earlier on the Mayflower. As a half blueblood Anglo, half first generation Latino, Tomas Ruiz knew
what it was to walk both sides of the street.

But, man, he loved Myra for trying to move his downtown groove up in the world. And when her back
was safely turned, he snuck her a fond smile-his sweetheart didn't go for lots of outward displays of
devotion. Then, real quick, before she caught wind of what he was up to, he changed the subject.

“Er, Myra-did I get any messages on Friday after I left?”

A penciled brow was raised. “Yep.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Two calls. Both women. Figures.” She smirked. “Elaborate enough? Or you want I should dress it up
some more?”

Ah, yes. Myra was in fine fettle today.

“What they want?” he asked, clamping down on an almost irresistible urge to duck. Things had a
tendency to get pitched when his cupcake got irritated.

“One was definitely business related. The other was definitely not.” A wink was sent his way.

When Myra's purple-sparkled eyelid squinted like that it could mean only one thing. “Chi-chis?”

“You guessed it.”

Bending low to Myra's ear and breathing hard, just to wet her curiosity, he asked, “Was it...you
know...urgent?”

The thinly pencilled eyebrow lifted to preposterous heights. “Your lady friends generally are, boss.”

“Stop it,” he said, humbly. “You're making me blush.”

“Yeah, right. You're about a hundred set of chi-chis past blushing.”

Hiding a grin, Tomas thumbed through his mile-high correspondence. “Tell me, babes, what would you
do without my love life to speculate on?”

“I guess I'd have to get my vicarious thrills elsewhere,” his sweetheart answered, eyes raised over the
frames of her rhinestone-studded bifocals. “Though the loss of your love life would leave a mighty big
hole to fill.”

“Not so big any more. Business is so good, there's no time to sleep, never mind date.”

“I'm thinkin’ Chi-chis wants you to combine the two.”

A gentleman never tells.

Finished with his mail thumbing, and not finding what he was looking for, Tomas wandered dejectedly to
the trailer's breakfast nook where he poured himself a cup of black coffee. With a head tilt, he swallowed
the contents in one long pull.

“Myra, you said two calls-” Here, he crossed his fingers around the cup. “-was the second call
concerning the Riverfront Project?”

“No, but it's still early yet. You might hear somethin’ later on this week.”

Taking pity on him, she didn't make him beg for the other message. “The second call was from that
Seraphina Norris woman.”

Tomas groaned.

Pulling out her compact, Myra fluffed her eggplant-toned beehive. “She's not giving up, boss.”

“Did you send the second eviction notice like I asked you to?”

The compact snapped shut. “Who has time?”

“Myra,” he said quietly. “I told you, I wanted that second notification out a week ago. The Monroe
mansion is up for demolition at month's end.”

“Stop yellin’ at me!” Myra shouted, reaching into the greasy cardboard box always kept on her desk.
“You know what my doc says about on-the-job-stress and my weight problem.”

After selecting a donut from the dozen or so inside the carton, she bit into the soggy-filled middle.

“See what you made me do!” she squawked, after daintily wiping her lips.

“Sorry,” he said.

And he was. Sorry, that is. About a lot of things. He'd messed up plenty in his life. But not this time. This
time, he'd crossed all those ‘i's and dotted those ‘t's'. Everything about that eviction notice was strictly
legit. And still, Myra was pissed.

Tomas couldn't understand why his multi-cultural ass was getting whipped. It wasn't even Saturday night,
his standing date night with the redheaded, big-busted, leather-wearing, switch-cracking, Dom Lucille.

He decided to tell Myra about his perplexity. “About the eviction letter... I just don't get what you're
getting at, Myra. You know what's going on over at the Monroe place. You know that situation is
damned dangerous-”

“Yeah, yeah. All right! I agree it is dangerous.”

“So, what is it with sending the letter?”

“You want the skinny? Here it is. I couldn't do it. The Norris dame sounded so damned nice on the
phone. Like a real lady. The kind you don't see too much any more.” She looked at him pointedly. “At
least not in this trailer.” She paused for theatrical effect; her voice turned cagey. “I think you'd soften the
blow if you explained about the eviction in person.”

“Send-the-second-letter,” Tomas slowly enunciated. Because when push came to shove, he was a
businessman, not a fuckin’ social worker.

“Okay, so don't go over there. Give the nice lady with the sweet voice the brush off if you want to. I'll
send her a cold heartless letter with your stamped signature on the bottom after the sincerely. That oughta
do it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I'm sorry now I ever mentioned she called. You asked me who called, I told you who called. It's
nothing to me if you don't want to do the right thing. I'll still be able to sleep at night.”

“Glad to hear it-”

“No skin off my nose.”

“Great.”

“No pay from my pocket.”

“Firme. Cool.”

“No-”

“Stop, please-” Tomas hung his muscled neck over his coffee cup. “You win.”

And his dentist asked how come he ground his teeth at night-

Myra didn't believe in letting anybody off the hook too easy. Tilting her head, she made him suffer.
“What's that you say? I left my hearing aid at home in a drawer.”

Tomas wished he had one of those things. That way, he could tune certain people out whenever he
wanted. “I said, I'll go over there and tell Seraphina Norris about the eviction notice in person. Call her
and let her know I'm coming by. After work. Around six.”

Myra smiled, smug as can be, and went back to reading her newspaper.

What could he say? From time to time, his bad-ass needed flaying. Which, when he thought about it,
was kinda funny, because try as she might, he never let Lucille anywhere near him with any of her S&M
toys. When it came to sex, he was strictly a meat and potatoes kind of guy...

...or beans and rice, whichever side of his heritage happened to be hungry.

He didn't do games or role-playing or anything involving too much kink. A little was okay, but nothing
that involved more than two batteries. He never did understand that whole French maid concept. And
stanky foot fetishes? What was that all about?

Don't get him started on group sex. More than two noses in a bed was a crowd and he didn't do
crowds. He was good under the sheets, but what man could satisfy more than one woman at a time? It
was work getting just one woman to agree on something. As to two men on one woman-the only
hard-on he wanted in close proximity was his own.

No ‘bout a'doubt it, he liked women. All kinds, all sizes, all shapes, all colors. He was also hung like a
stallion, which could present a problem for whoever the lady was he was with. So, with that in mind, he'd
made up a poem-he liked poetry. It went as follows:

When doing the wild thing, keep the mating tame

Fuck the rough stuff, only a pussy causes a woman pain.

Despite the gossip going around town about him, he was your standard, look her in the eye, kiss her on
the lips, ease it gently into her love grotto, have a lot of laughs, straight shooter. To each his own flavor
when it comes to sex, but as for him, he'd stick with vanilla.

So how did he explain those Saturday night dates spent with the whip-wielding Dom Lucille?

He worked hard, his back muscles got a little sore, and that redheaded Dominatrix gave the best
massage in the business. After she worked on him for a while, they generally sat around and watched
WWE on cable. He didn't much care for wrestling—boxing was more to his taste—but Lucy was a huge
fan, so that's where the TV channel stayed.

The remote control...sex...they've got a lot in common. In either one or both, if a man don't respect the
wishes of the lady he's with—even if that lady is a Dom wearing a ten-inch strap-on-he's pretty much a
dick.

Now that was a saying he lived by.

CHAPTER TWO

Seraphina Norris did windows.

She also did walls and floors, and anything else that needed a good washing. She dreamt about
detergent-scented pails of water at night, but that didn't stop her scrubbing. She was a woman on a
mission, and nothing was standing in her way, especially not something as trivial as a little...okay...a lot of
dirt.

It was only dirt, after all. Only ten plus years of grime and neglect and filth and litter and tossed refuse
and the occasional empty beer can.

Really, washing the diamond-faceted panes was more a pleasure than a chore, Seraphina mused,
squirting the next pane in line with a fine blue mist from her plastic bottle.

They just didn't make intricately molded woodwork like this any more, she thought with an appreciative
sigh over the workmanship. Like everything else in the old Monroe mansion, the windows were finely
crafted and built to last.

After wiping the excess cleaner from the rippled green glass with crumbled newspaper-less expensive
than paper towels-she polished each pane individually until it sparkled. All around her, sunlight splintered
and bounced, creating dancing rainbow-prisms on the grimy walls. Soon, if everything went according to
plan, musical notes from student musicians would once again bounce off these walls too.

Wealthy shipbuilder, Captain Samuel Monroe, built the Monroe mansion in the mid-eighteen hundreds
during Fenton's heyday of economic prosperity. The seafaring gentleman and his socialite wife,
Priscilla-adorably, he called her Prissy and she called him Cap'n-had produced a brood of ten children,
all of whom played an instrument. At times, Seraphina swore she still heard the haunting melodies of a
bygone era drifting through the mansion's empty rooms-

At least that's what she was telling everybody.

It made for a good story, and the ability to raise scholarship money was often based on such sweet
romantic tales. The truth of the matter was romance had nothing to do with her decision to rent the old
Monroe place. She took on the mansion because the rent was dirt-cheap, and dirt-cheap was all she
could afford. When the owner quoted the amount, she'd agreed to the figure on the spot.

One month after their verbal agreement, the property was sold to real estate developer-cum-strip club
owner, Tomas Ruiz, and she had A NOTICE TO QUIT in her hand.

Skipping the legalese, she read between the lines: Fenton was undergoing an economic boom, and
‘renovators’ were tearing down old houses like the Monroe place left and right to make way for pricey
housing developments. The mansion was next to go.

Over her dead body. It would take a heck of a lot more than a piece of paper with Eviction Notice
printed at the top to get her fanny out of the Monroe mansion. She loved the old place! The house had
character. History. Personality. Bats-

Okay, the bats creeped her out. But the exterminator was coming next week and he'd relocate her little
winged friends. And you know what? She'd still be here! That was the whole point. She wasn't going
anywhere! Morally, the mansion was hers. She had right on her side, first dibs, a cancelled check for one
month's rent and security deposit...and no where else to go. Tomas Ruiz was not getting his
money-grubbing hands on her home!

She'd tell him so just as soon as he returned her phone calls.

Thus far, he hadn't bothered getting back to her.

Irresponsible jerk. He was too busy micro-managing his strippers at The Pink Flamingo, she supposed,

to dial her number. But if and when she did hear from him, guaranteed, she was giving him a piece of her
mind. He wasn't getting away with this travesty of justice!

She'd show him, Seraphina thought, ripping off a sheet of newspaper and twisting it. Hard. Very hard.
Until it squeaked.

Rolling the guillotined newsprint up into a crumpled ball, she attacked the next windowpane in line.

She'd put Tomas Ruiz right in his place, Seraphina decided with a vigorous head nod. And not by
stooping to his base level, either. Oh, no. She'd take the high road. She'd charm him. Smother him in
graciousness. She'd simply explain, in a non-judgmental manner, why she was right and he was wrong.
Wrong. Dead wrong.

She was deep in contemplation, outlining a truly excellent argument to validate her position, when her
nape prickled. Her neck never tingled like that unless something was...well...wrong. Wrong. Dead
wrong.

Even so, true panic didn't set in until she heard the soft fall of a footstep directly behind her.

She knew exactly two people in Fenton, neither of whom would drop by unexpectedly, so there went
the possibility that the footstep belonged to a friendly visitor. And since she had no neighbors that ruled
out the likelihood that the person sneaking up behind her was here to borrow a cup of sugar.

The Monroe mansion had wonderful potential, but it was located in a desolate part of the riverfront, an
area where breaking-and-entering was commonplace. Seraphina had a horrible feeling she was about to
be added to the crime stats.

Why hadn't she had a locksmith over to install deadbolts on the door, like she had intended to? For that
matter, why didn't she have her cell phone close by so she could punch in nine-one-one?

With no neighbors to scream to for help, no possibility of a three-digit rescue, Seraphina looked wildly
around the porch for a weapon.

She found one close at hand. Actually, it was in her hand. The ammonia window wash solution wasn't
exactly Mace, but it would have to do...

Gripping the plastic bottle like an Uzi, she pivoted, aimed the No-Drip nozzle, and pulled the
hair-sensitive trigger.

Bulls-eye! The streak-free formula tagged the rough-looking thug mid-forehead.

Legs braced, she was all set to fire off another round of blue spray when the home intruder held up both
hands, palms forward.

“Stop!” He laughed. “Don't squirt! Everything's cool. I surrender.”

Here, in the flesh, was the criminal element she'd been warned against. This...this...hoodlum had invaded
her home, prepared to do who knew what, and now he was laughing at her?

How dare he?

No mercy, her thumb squeezed the trigger.

Two laughing dark eyes were tagged with a stream of harsh ammonia.

“Shit!” The intruder sputtered and choked and coughed, his hands clawing at his reddened eyeballs. He
wasn't laughing any more.

“That's what you get for picking on a defenseless woman,” she coolly informed him.

It happened so fast. She never saw it coming, never saw him make his move. One second she was
holding the plastic bottle, all set to fire away again, and the next second her weapon was bouncing in a
blue sudsy puddle on the floor and she was being sandwiched between a wall and a very large body.

“Are you all right?” she was asked.

Her chin quivered. “What do you care?”

“Hell, lady. You just about ruined me for ever forever watching cable again, but I never meant to hurt
you. I acted on reflex.”

Big hands roamed her all over.

“Settle down so I can see if you got any broken bones,” he said.

Settle down? As in passively letting him do whatever he came here to do? Who did he think he was
dealing with?

“If it's money you're after,” she parleyed, changing strategies from attack to negotiation now that she was
on the losing end of the encounter, “I have forty dollars in cash in my purse, inside the house-”

Next to the cell phone. How long could three digits possibly take to punch?

“If you'd like, I'll go get the money now,” she said, a pleading note creeping into voice, making it go all
wobbly. She hated that vocal wobble worse than anything, worse than even being helplessly pressed to
the wall.

“Shh. You've got the wrong idea here,” the miscreant soothed, his pronunciation low-life flavored, a big
hand moving down her spine. “Sure I didn't hurt you? You're such a tiny little thing.”

What was he doing?

Goodness! He was...oh ...he was feeling her. Everywhere.

“No! You can't!” she shrieked. “You absolutely cannot do this.”

“Hush, now. Just let me. Okay?”

Moaning, her legs loosened. She didn't want them to. She didn't tell them to. The order to part her legs
did not originate in her brain; the instruction came from someplace much lower, someplace much deeper,
a hidden core inside herself she'd spent years suppressing. She was not fighting him now so much as she
was fighting her own wanton nature.

Gently kneading fingers moved down her back, around her waist, splaying the flare of her hip. When his
touch briefly swept the fullness of her bottom, biting her lip, she sighed in pleasure.

It was hot on the porch, but as his free hand encircled her wrist in a finger manacle, his thumb rubbing
the soft underside, stroking in concentric little circles over her pulse, she shivered almost convulsively.

Not in fear. Oh, not in fear.

Somehow, she knew he wouldn't hurt her-

Unless, she asked him to. “Please?”

“Easy. Just take it easy, ruca.”

Slanting his whiskered jaw, he spoke against her ear, “I think maybe I should introduce myself before
we get into something here we maybe shouldn't get into. I'm Tomas Ruiz. You know, Ruiz Construction?
I understand you been calling me. Guess you never got the message that I was coming by at six-”

Seraphina frowned. Tomas Ruiz? The new owner of the Monroe mansion? The money-grubbing,
opportunistic, womanizer she'd heard so much about? Her new landlord, whom she needed to sway to
her cause by virtue of sound reasoning? The man who had the power to destroy her most cherished
dream? That Tomas Ruiz? He was the hoodlum whose face she'd just soaked?

Oh, dear. She'd really screwed up this time.

“You don't seem hurt,” he said, and the weight of his hard body moved back and away.

Now free, Seraphina spun around to face her adversary.

Tomas Ruiz was swiping at his drippy-wet forehead with the sleeve of his torn black T-shirt. As he lifted
his arm, she noticed the ripple of his bicep-difficult not to notice the flex of such a large muscle-and that
the front of his glossy black hair was dripping with the window washing solution.

Hair that thick would take an awfully long time to dry. Seraphina had an almost irresistible urge to comb
her hands through the long wet strands just to help it along. Would that black hair feel soft or coarse on
her fingertips? She wondered.

She'd very nearly blinded an innocent man, and yet she felt herself drift off into a sensual fantasy that had
absolutely nothing at all to do with the reality of her present situation.

“You are Seraphina Norris, right?” Tomas Ruiz broke into her reverie to question.

“Hmm?” In her imagination, his dark hair-it was deliciously soft, not coarse at all-was between her
fingers and she was mussing it all up. Then she was pulling his mussed-up head down to her belly, her
NAKED belly, letting the long strands tickle her bare skin. As she liked that sensation, experimentally,
she pulled him down to her...

“Lady, are you okay?” Whisky-brown eyes showed their concern.

She snapped back to attention. “Ah-oh. Yes, I'm fine.”

But was she? Was she really fine?

She didn't feel very fine. Yes, she did occasionally have those kinds of thoughts, usually when she was
alone in bed at night, but never before did they overtake in the middle of the day.

Hand trembling, she patted the front of her skirt. “And yes, I'm Seraphina Norris.”

“Listen, I'm sorry if I scared you. I tried the bell, but it don't work. When I knocked on the door, you
nodded your head in a kind of jerky motion, so I figured that was your way of telling me to come on
ahead. I wouldn't have barged in on you like that otherwise.”

The nod! She remembered the nod.

Lost deep in thought, scheming up a way to fix her landlord's wagon, she had indeed nodded her head.
Tomas Ruiz might very well have mistaken that nod as a tacit agreement for him to enter her porch. Why,
this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding...

At a loss as to what to do next, say next, she fell back on polite formality.

Extending her hand, she said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ruiz.”

Then she went and ruined everything by swaying on her feet. She did that quite a lot since her illness.
The weakness came and went with annoying regularity, the episodes increasing when she was tired.

Lately, she was tired all the time.

Bypassing the handshake, Tomas Ruiz made a grab for her elbow. “I could maybe come back
tomorrow. I can see my appearance has disturbed you.”

“Oh, don't you turn this back on me, Mr. Ruiz!”

She yanked her elbow away from his supportive grip. “This has nothing to do with your appearance.
You simply caught me unawares and startled me.”

He flashed her a dazzling white smile, just oozing with hip, gangsta charm. “Sure about that, ruca? Sure it
wasn't my mestizo-brown complexion that did it for you?”

Ruca. That was the second time he'd called her that. She knew enough Spanglish to know that ruca
meant ‘chick’ in the quirky hybridization of Castilian Spanish and English, a best-of-two-world language,
full of colorful idiomatic expressions like ruca.

In nobody's language was she a chick

In any language Tomas Ruiz did disturb her.

Not in the way he thought, however. He was talking about something insidious here, about judging a
book by its cover. Had she?

This was the crime-riddled Southside, and Tomas Ruiz's book cover was very rough indeed. His face
was dirty. His clothing-breaking-and-entering black-was ripped in several places. There were gaudy

silver hoops dangling from his earlobes. He looked like he didn't own a razor. His hair was tied back in a
ponytail-that is, most of it was. Some of those gorgeous long strands were sweeping his enormous
shoulders.

Oh, she could go on and on about his disreputable appearance! But had she jumped to the wrong
conclusion based solely on his grungy exterior?

Seraphina adjusted the collar on her tailored white cotton blouse, smoothed her palms over the straight
line of her conservative tan skirt, made sure her hair was all neatly tucked into its coil at the back of her
head, and examined her conscience.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, horrified at what she saw inside herself.

Tomas Ruiz shrugged. “I came straight from work. No shower or change first. That's why I look more
bad-ass than usual.”

She shook her head back and forth. “That's no excuse-”

“Don't beat yourself up over it. This is a high-crime area. And, let's face it,” he said, thumbing the
two-day beard on his chin, then tweaking the silver hoop dangling from his ear lobe, “I fit the profile of a
Southside desperado. It's a common enough mistake, a common enough reaction.”

“But it shouldn't be.”

His tone was cynical. “Yeah, ain't life a disillusioning bitch, though? You'll get over it in no time.”

“You don't know me, Mr. Ruiz. Please don't presume to know what I'm thinking or what I'll get over in
no time.”

Tomas Ruiz rocked cockily back and forth on the scuffed heels of his work boots. “That's where you're
wrong,” he said smugly. “I know all about you. You're the naïve, do-gooder, gringa lady who wants to
start a music school in a condemned building.”

So much for the introductory pleasantries...

Seraphina felt absolutely horrible about jumping to the wrong conclusion, about over-reacting based
solely on a person's appearance. But at least she'd owned up to her mistake, and this...this arrogant
real-estate developer needed to own up to his as well, because no one but no one called her a
do-gooder and got away with it. Do-gooder sentimentality wasn't what she was about, wasn't what this
school was about.

She had never backed down from a fight in her life and she was not backing down from this one. She
got right in his face. Nose to nose. So close, she could make out each and every one of the individual
whisker stubble on Tomas Ruiz's strong jaw. So near, she could practically taste his after work beer.
Without any space between them, she inhaled the sweat from his body. Clean sweat. Real sweat. A
working man's hard-earned sweat unmasked by fake, male-model cologne.

Shockingly, as she breathed him in, her hardening nipples pushed out against her blouse.

She'd felt nothing for so long. Neither anger nor joy, nor anything else except a debilitating and
depressing dullness that passed as existence, and now she was feeling this...this... need! A sexual need.

Where had it come from?

She was unprepared. Didn't know how to act. Her traitorous body was reacting in a sexual way to a
man's natural scent and her awareness of him as man was taking her by surprise. She didn't expect it,
didn't know what to do with it, and horror of horrors, the excitement was spreading lower; her belly
actually fluttered, then clenched in arousal.

She swallowed, intentionally, hoping to compensate for the dryness in her throat, a dryness that was in
converse proportion to an embarrassing wetness someplace else.

She widened her legs in a militant stance-actually, she was unsticking herself from the panel on her moist
panties. “First of all, Mr.Ruiz, the mansion isn't condemned.”

“Only because the former owner's brother-in-law is Fenton's building inspector. Listen, lady, there's no
point arguing. The building ain't safe and I want you out.”

He was so young!

She was not so young any more. After this past year, she felt as old as the hills.

In real years, she was almost thirty-one, far too old to fall for any of Tomas Ruiz's twenty-something
lines. Safety had nothing to do with his wanting her out of the mansion!

“Secondly, Mr. Ruiz, I am far from naïve. Thirdly, I don't want to start a school. I am starting a school.
Here. Do you understand the distinction between the two or is that just way over your head?”

“Hey, I'm not stupid, lady.”

Considering the Cro-Magnon quality of his grunted reply, the veracity of that statement remained to be
seen.

Charitably, she made no comment about his knuckle dragging. He was, as she'd already noted, very
young. As far as she was concerned, his youth meant he was barely bipedal on the evolutionary ladder.

It was the rare twenty-something male who thought with his gray matter not his genitalia, who put the
greater good above his own best interests. She could hardly blame Tomas Ruiz for his youth. But she
could and did blame herself for succumbing to the virile appeal of it. Gosh, her panties were soaking!

“Fourthly, Mr. Ruiz,” she said, almost not remembering what number she was on, “I had a rental
agreement with the prior owner. And that entitles me to-”

“-exactly nada. You didn't pay that rent to me. You wrote the check out to Mike Anderson. And that
just goes to prove how naïve you really are, because Anderson had already negotiated the sale of this
dump to me before you forked over the security deposit.”

Her eyes widened. “He had? But surely that's-”

“-illegal? Guess again.”

Broad, black T-shirt-clad shoulders bunched. A hard forearm contracted. Pumped-up biceps rippled. A
thread of raven black hair fell over an ammonia-dampened forehead. A shadowed jaw tilted to the side

in a move that was so slick, so smooth, so utterly charming that Sera knew he had to practice it in front
of a mirror. Tomas Ruiz was not a thug; she was wrong about that. But he was most definitely a
testosterone polluted young male incapable of any true depth of intellectual activity. Grade-A beefcake.
Nice on the eyes, but a cerebral lightweight. He had about as much substance as dandelion fluff.

“Lady,” he scoffed, his thumb hooked lazily in his belt loop, “Anderson's a bandito in Amandi threads.
He took you for a ride to the tune of a coupla grand, and never looked back.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Got a lease on this dump, lady?”

“Why-why no. But we shook hands-”

Tomas Ruiz winced, his body actually flinching. “Never, but never, not in this litigious world, does a
handshake substitute for a signature.”

Litigious?

Big word for a disconnected brainstem.

She sniffed. To be fair, though, he was making a good point. A very good point-

Must have been a freak accident, a once in a lifetime stroke of luck.

Ten seconds later, she was mentally whacking her forehead. Tomas Ruiz was right! What a complete
idiot she was!

“Mr. Anderson seemed like such a nice man too-”

“Lady, beware of nice men.” Tomas Ruiz's dark eyes laughed. “Beware of not so nice men too.” Like
quicksilver, those same laughing eyes instantly sobered. “You've got ‘til the end of the month to vacate
this dump.”

“But that's not-”

“Fair? Just keepin’ it real, lady. Two days is longer than I legally have to give you.”

“Stop finishing my sentences for me, Mr. Ruiz,” she snapped, incensed by this mercurial, street-wise
young man. Incensed even more by her extreme reaction to him. Why, she was old enough to be his...

Something. Not his mother, certainly. That was far too old. But another mature female relative.

She assumed an older, sisterly tone. “And, Mr. Ruiz, if you call me ‘lady’ just once more, I'm very much
afraid I'll feel compelled to disprove your assumption.”

Here, with an action that had over-compensation written all over it, her finger actually waggled.
“Furthermore, in the future, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from referring to my home as a
‘dump'. This mansion is lovely and historical, and it has more potential in its foundation than those ugly
mausoleums you're putting up all over town.”

His brown eyes heated as they rested on her in a look that was both assessing and complimentary.
“Well, well, well. The pretty music teacher has got some kind of fiery temper. Have a care, ruca, you
might just burn me up.”

He then gazed at her soulfully, shining on her the kind of roguish male smile that almost had her believing
that she merited his ‘Big Seduction’ routine.

She would not be taken in by his shenanigans. Oh no, not her! Though, she had to hand it to him, he was
darn good at what he did.

This outrageous young man was only flirting with her because he wanted something from her. And that
something was for her to leave the Monroe house. Quietly. For if his callous and high-handed treatment
was leaked to the press it would create the kind of public relations nightmare that no amount of spin
doctoring could fix.

Ah, yes. She could see the headlines in the local paper now... ‘Brash Boy Builder Evicts Penniless,
Practically Middle-aged Widow From Her Home'...

What a nice little human-interest piece the story would make. Her sad plight might even warrant a
continuing series. She was not above using her missionary background to wrench a little sympathy from
the readership, and hard luck stories sold papers. Everyone knew that! By the time she got through with
him, Tomas Ruiz would be the scourge of Fenton.

Which is what he deserved. After all, her motives were pure and his motives were pure evil.

“Naturally,” he said, “as a gesture of Ruiz Construction goodwill, I'll be happy to return your full rental
and security deposit upon your vacating the premises.”

“You know what you can do with your gesture of goodwill.” Her wagging finger jabbed his brick-house
hard chest. “You won't get rid of me that easily, Mr. Ruiz.”

“Like this is easy. I've had easy, and you ain't it.”

Her poking finger was captured, gently imprisoned between two callused palms.

“Just because you look like an angel don't mean I'm gonna stand by and let myself get clobbered by
your wing spread. Now, quit thumping me, girl,” he said, returning her finger. “New home construction
starts in three weeks. And if you're thinking about fighting the eviction notice, give up on it. That notice
will stand up in any court of law. I can have a constable remove all your stuff at the end of the month and
put it out front.”

He backed out her door. “I'd rather keep things friendly, but if you wanna rock ‘n roll with me, we can
do that too. Just let me know. You've got my number.”

Did she ever!

“I don't do rock ‘n roll, Mr. Ruiz. I do classical,” she said self-righteously, and slammed the door in her
landlord's filthy face.

CHAPTER THREE

Since his company's pickup was parked at the end of the pitted drive, Tomas was forced to retrace his
steps along the mansion's winding back walkway, something he didn't relish doing. When he first arrived
at the Monroe place, he'd tried using the more accessible front door, but a raggedy sign at the end of a
frayed wire informed him that the bell was out of service-

Like he couldn't have figured that out all on his own.

The same message was tacked at the back door, which is why he'd done the knuckle rap and how
come he ended up getting his face ammonia-sized for the effort.

Shuddering at the mile-high weeds that passed as landscaping, shaking his head at the peeling paint,
cringing at a roof that wouldn't make it through another snowy winter, Tomas made his way back to his
truck, head down, eyes searching the grass.

La cagada! Shit! He hated bugs. All bugs. Must've been left over from his childhood or something. He
guessed he'd just spent one too many nights sleeping in insect-infested rooms. Welfare roach motels.
Shelters. Cardboard boxes. Even now, anything that crawled, flew, or had more than two feet gave him
the shakes.

He was at the side of the house, closing in on the bug-free environment of his truck, when a summer
breeze blew up from out of nowhere and carried a song to his ears. The melody was so
damned...moving, he guessed was the word, that forgetting about the bugs waiting to jump out at him
from the weeds, Tomas turned his back around.

Surer than shooting pool with the boys on Saturday night, there was Seraphina Norris, gone back to
washing the damn windows. The lady looked like an angel reflected there behind the glass. And not only
did she look like an angel, she had a celestial voice to match.

But her hands! Man, he'd noticed those dishwater-chapped fingers right away. The knuckles were all
reddened and swollen, real sore-looking. And that just made her window washing all the more pathetic-

And explained why he couldn't laugh his ass off over her useless housekeeping.

The do-gooder just didn't get it! In this neighborhood, a shiny window was a gold-plated invitation for a
re-glazing job. Those windows were gonna get busted, and all her shining and polishing wouldn't matter
shit then.

Pan dulce! Tomas thought.

“Yum,” he said aloud. The lady was some pretty. In a delicate sort of way.

Her tits were small, and with that killer bra she was wearing, it was hard to tell their shape. Luckily, as a
strip club owner, he knew his way around tits, and so he knew her breasts were shaped real fine. A
shame she didn't pitch the cast iron brassiere, and play up her perkiness.

Fact was, she wasn't playing up any of her dainty attributes. If anything, the lady was doing everything
she could to hide her delicate shape under a loose fitting shirt and boxy-straight skirt. Even her hair, a
warm golden brown, was downplayed. It was real thick and wavy. Long too. Down to her sweet ass
was his bet. He had to guess about that because she had her hair all pulled back, scraped tight against
her skull, and rolled into an old maid's bun behind her head.

And speaking of sweet asses-the lady was delicately built, but for all that, woooweee, she had some fine
junk in the trunk. Fuck, that woman was ripe for some good Latino lovin'. Her rosy flush and dilated eyes
and rapidly beating pulse, the one he'd had his thumb on to see if she was about to faint, told him so.

He'd like to get her to let her hair down and in more way than one. He'd like to get her naked, so he
could see if those tits were as cute as he thought they were. He'd like to get it on with her, get it into her-

Getting into Seraphina Norris was one place he wasn't going. She might look like an angel, she might
sing like an angel, but her rose-colored view of the world was damned dangerous. The only thing he was
up for with Seraphina Norris was getting her out of his damned business.

Maybe where Seraphina Norris came from everyone had clean windows. Not on the Southside. In this
neighborhood, most folks were too busy scrambling to get by to worry about niceties like clean
windows. That's what the pretty do-gooder lady with the angel voice and the sinful body would have to
learn, and it looked to him like she'd have to learn it the hard way.

Not his problem. Tomas decided, climbing back into the truck and gunning it. He planned on steering
clear of Seraphina Norris of the pretty tits and passion-scented pussy. Hers weren't the only cute tits in
the world. Her cunt wasn't the only cunt on the Southside with that subtle come-hither fragrance.

One mile later, arousal over a pretty woman turned to disgust over an ugly neighborhood.

Didn't matter shit how often he drove down the familiar streets, the conditions always got to him: the
rusted and neglected trailers, the shabby little bungalows, the littered playground where broken beer
bottle glass made it impossible for kids to play B-ball. The sound and sight and stink of poverty
alternately filled him with despair and rage.

Nothing had changed on the Southside since he was a kid. Then, as now, there wasn't much for kids to
do in the summer down here, except dodge trouble and play keep away from the cops. You might even
say, the only summertime recreation was running ... from blue flashing lights, screeching sirens, and the
sad wail of EMT's arriving on the scene to clean up after yet another mother's heartbreak.

It always seemed hotter down by the river too. And dirtier. It sure as hell smelled worse. And it
shouldn't have. The waterfront should've been beautiful. But the river was so polluted, families no longer
use it any more for recreation. No swimming, no boating, no fishing, not in years. When he was a kid,
some big shot politician got the great idea of building a community swimming pool. It was during an
election year, and he'd run on a ‘Save Our Youth’ platform. So the pool was built and swimming lessons
were promised.

What a joke! The pool was filled that first year, and that was the last time. The sub-contractor poured
the poorest grade cement, and the interior walls cracked, then caved. That was just how things went on
the Southside. Empty promises with no follow-through.

Bone crushing weariness crept over Tomas. Some days, he just wanted to throw in the towel. The
tendency to quit was one of the lingering aftereffects of growing up on the Southside. That, and the feeling
that you just weren't good enough, that you would never be good enough, that you had no right to your
dreams. It was a mindset he fought every single fuckin’ day.

The Southside was a place that burned up dreams. And he should know; as a kid, he'd come real close
to setting his own future on fire.

Plagued by bad memories, Tomas put as many miles as he could between himself and the run-down
house he now owned and couldn't wait to demolish, and from a woman who wouldn't take no for an
answer.

She'd just have to accept the eviction, because he had big plans and he wasn't about to let Seraphina
Norris mess things up for him.

Thanks to the steady in-flux of newcomers moving into town on the coattails of ‘Fenton's resurgence of
economic prosperity’ Ruiz Construction was booming. The new Interstate made commuting to big jobs in
the big city a sixty-minute snap. As a result, four-bedroom, three-car-attached-garage, colonials were
springing up everywhere for all those briefcase-toting, keyboard thumping, stressed-out business
executive types.

Tomas Ruiz, the welfare kid who grew up the hard way, the punk who got his education from the school
of hard knocks, was designing those trophy houses, all built on large tracts of land considered
unsalvageable. Like the old Monroe homestead.

With its hilltop location that overlooked the water, the fourteen acres should've been prime real estate.
And it was...to the dopers.

When vagrants busted up the windows and doors, then started setting fires, the town had stepped in and
had the house boarded up. That's when the dealers set up shop. Now druggies made their connections in
those once stately rooms. Yep, the mansion was a regular drive-thru pharmaceutical factory.

About a year or so ago, the town put the estate up for bid-the place was a public embarrassment, a
symbol of everything that had gone wrong on the riverfront, and the Fenton town fathers wanted their
hands washed nice and clean by the next election. Anderson purchased the house and land for the price
of the back taxes-way too rich for Tomas Ruiz's blood-and then proceeded to wait for the local law
enforcement to get rid of the dope show.

It never happened.

The mansion went back on the block again.

Lots of looking, nada offers. Seems like no one wanted to hassle the dealers. But, hey, one man's
headache is another man's golden opportunity. When the time came for Anderson to unload the property,
Tomas Ruiz was right there, ready to do the dude a favor. For next to nothing, all fourteen acres were
his.

Ain't no rich CEO gonna buy an upscale house in a downscale neighborhood, so Tomas Ruiz was
getting down and dirty with the dealers. Henceforth, he was on the dealers’ asses like chiqule. That went
for the pimps and all the rest of the assorted outlaws too. He was sticking to them like bubble gum. He
was up for hassling anyone who got in his way, and that included the do-gooder music teacher.

Tomas parked his truck under one of the few working streetlights on the river and walked alone into the
dark night.

No one knew better than he that the riverfront was dangerous geography, which is why he was taking no
chances; he stuck to the designated trail and went straight to the meeting spot. Leaning a hip against a
stripped and torched car, he waited.

When the group approached, about a half-dozen vatos wearing gang colors and head bandanas, and
surrounded him, Tomas folded his arms over his chest in a deliberately relaxed pose.

“Yo, man,” Enrico Cortez began. “You hauntin’ the old ‘hood tonight for a reason, Ruiz?”

“I never left the barrio and you fuckin’ well know it. Do not dick with me, ‘Rico!” Tomas exploded.

Chale', man! Be cool. Be cool. I know you got big chones, no need to prove it. Just say what's on your
mind.”

Tomas got right to the point. “I need a favor, ‘Rico. You think the R.P's can help me out?”

“Holla up,” he replied. “You know me and my boys will be there for you.”

* * * *

Seraphina washed and shined the rest of the intact windows until they were sparkling clean. That done,
and feeling more energized than she had felt in a very long time, she went back inside the house, picked
up the cell phone, and dialed the number she had left on a piece of paper beside her purse.

“Hello Dean Slater, this is Seraphina Norris, director of the Southside Conservatory of Music. We
spoke earlier about your fine music department at the University. Well, I'm calling today because I'd like
to set up some interview appointments with your graduating seniors to discuss September teaching
opportunities at my school. I'm amenable to all music majors, regardless of their instruments.”

She surveyed the home of her new school: The crumbling, plaster walls. The destroyed section of oak
flooring vagrants had ripped up for firewood. The buckled ceiling caused by a leak in the roof. The trash
and debris and broken beer bottles collecting in the dirt where there was once front lawn. Letting her
imagination soar, the blight disappeared, and in its place, she saw possibilities.

Telling herself that if the dream is your heart, it isn't a lie, she spoke once more into the phone. “As you
probably know, Dean Slater, the Southside Conservatory of Music is housed in a lovely old shipbuilder's
mansion, set high atop a rolling hill that overlooks the scenic river park area of Fenton. The setting is
absolutely breathtaking!”

Seraphina squeezed her eyes shut, better to see the big picture.

If the dream is in your heart, it isn't a lie...

“The manicured grounds and perennial gardens are picturesque, and lovingly maintained,” she continued,
seeing the image so clearly in her mind's eye that she could easily have given Dean Slater the names of the
flowers, should he ask. “I don't know if you're aware of this or not, but I'm having the entire house
remodeled. As we speak, an architect is readying his plans. “What's that, Dean Slater? Oh, yes. The
mansion will be restored to its former elegance by the opening of school. I personally guarantee it. I also
guarantee that the new teachers who are fortunate enough to work here will love the peaceful
environment of the neighborhood. The town of Fenton is undergoing an economic resurgence, you know.
It's a dream come true, really. Now I'll let you get out your appointment calendar and we can start talking
scheduling...

“For tomorrow. Yes. There's no point delaying. I want my teachers on staff immediately.”

CHAPTER FOUR

En route to the trailer's metal door, Tomas took one whiff of the cloying cloud of air-freshener hovering
around his office manager's front desk and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Myra, what I tell you about smoking in here?”

“I forget,” his sweetheart replied, reaching for her candy dish while doing a slow Titanic sink in her
orthopedic chair. “You know how absent-minded I get at times.” A mint was hastily popped in her
mouth; she started chewing real fast.

Convenient memory lapses. Selective hearing. Office procedures that were pretty much non-existent.
That stuff he could live with. But smoking? Un-un. Cigs were poison sticks. They had to go.

“Allow me to jump start your memory. No smoking in the offices of Ruiz Construction,” he said clearly,
without raising his voice so much as a notch.

Newsprint hit blotter. “Are we a little cranky today?”

“Not me.”

“Yeah, but I'm always cranky so it doesn't count”

He sighed. “I love ya, babes. I want you around to see me grow up.”

Myra rolled her eyes. “For pity's sake, you're almost twenty-six.”

“An immature twenty-six.”

“Don't I know it,” she crabbed.

“No one can make me toe the mark like you can, cupcake. What would I do without you?”

Spiked lashes fluttered. “Stop guilting me! The no-smoking, post-hypnotic suggestion is working, I tell
ya. This was only a small relapse.”

Tomas eyed the tin peanut butter jar lid that subbed as Myra's ashtray. Just as he suspected, it was filled
to overflowing. “There's enough ashes on your blotter to put a volcanic eruption to shame. Either you're
smoking like a fiend again when you think I'm not looking or you plan on scattering the remains of a long
lost relative during your noon to three, lunch hour.”

A sly look stole over Myra's plump cheeks. “Ya know, I'm gonna miss Uncle Ted. He was quite the
gent.”

“Myra-” he said in not so subtle warning.

“I hear ya. I hear ya.” She coughed her smoker's hack. “What's eating you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, nothin',” Myra scoffed. “You sound like some big bad bully just made off with your...” Here, she
reached for her donut box, ducked her hand inside, pulled out a greasy pastry and gave it a wave.
“...jelly cruller.”

Any punk who wanted that cholesterol-laden vein-clogger could have it. He wished Myra would start
eating better. He was gonna have to make another sneak phone call to her doc...

“I can handle bullies.”

“Right. It's nice ladies like Seraphina Norris who give you the heebie-jeebies. Nice ladies don't bite, ya
know,” she offered philosophically. “Not that Seraphina Norris will be taking any nips out of you.”

“She won't, huh?” he said, cocky as usual. He remembered all too well how she had looked at him.

“Nope. The lady is married.”

Tomas’ recollections screeched to a grinding stop. “Married? She is? But she wasn't wearing a wedding
band-”

“So-you made it a point to check out her ring finger, eh?”

Damn! That was one ambush he never saw coming.

But yeah, he'd noticed, the same way he'd noticed her pretty green eyes, thick golden-brown hair, and
compact curves. Her face said angel, but her body said something else again. Round breasts, trim waist,
generous bottom...Seraphina Norris had the kind of womanly softness a hard man like him appreciated.

What was he doing? He didn't hit on married ladies, didn't even go there in his thoughts. Whether or not
Seraphina Norris liked to bite during sex was none of his business. Her pretty white incisors were a moot
point. If she liked to rake her nails over a man's back, or grab his ass, or cup his balls and squeeze, not
too rough, just enough to make his uncut dick give a heads-up, all of that was nothing to him. She was
married. He didn't interfere with married women.

Of course, that didn't keep him from envying the lucky prick Seraphina Norris was married to. The
fortunate so and so who got to come home to her at the end of the day. The no good fuck who had the
right to-

Tomas stopped right there. He was way outta line. Jealousy ain't pretty, and envy never got a man
anywhere. Seraphina Norris was taken. End of story.

Except he couldn't get her out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about her, not since she'd squirted him
with window cleaner-

And wasn't that real quick thinking on her part? He thought, laughing to himself in memory. Though-if he
really had been a punk robber, high on crack, she could've been hurt. Where the hell was her husband?
Why wasn't the negligent jerk-off taking care of his woman?

“Do you believe that Seraphina Norris, anyway?” he asked Myra in exasperation over the whole mess.
“The kids on the Southside eat cereal three times a day, and she wants to bring culture into their lives.
Ever try pouring milk over culture? It gets all mushy, just like her brand of sentimentality.”

“Gotta start somewhere, boss. I'm thinkin’ the Norris woman is nuts too, but her heart seems to be in
the right place. She's got good intentions.”

“Good intentions are worthless,” he grumbled. “My bet says Seraphina Norris won't last on the
Southside till the end of the month. First sign of trouble, she'll pack up her cello and move back to
wherever she came from.”

Myra bit into her donut. “Piano,” she said around the pastry.

“Hunh?”

“Seraphina Norris plays the piano, not the cello. I heard her sing the other night over at the Chamber of
Commerce welcome reception. The caterers served those fancy cocktail wieners. The kind floating in
grape jelly. You should'a been there. The food was terrific. Let's see, what else did they have-”

When Myra started talking buffet food, the descriptions could go on for longer than he had time to listen.
He cut in quick. “Cello. Piano. Same difference.”

“No, they're not. Movin’ a piano is a major commitment. My money's on her stayin'.”

“Not at the Monroe place, she's not! I already told her, I want her out.”

Myra wet a fingertip and drew it across her arched brow. “As a kid, didn't you wanna learn how to play
the piano?”

Tomas's shoulders lifted. “Don't know. Could've been me-”

“Sure it was you, Tommie. I remember you tellin’ me that one of the foster homes you stayed at as a kid
had a piano and you wanted to learn the keys.”

Myra always called him ‘Tommie’ when she was forcing unwanted memories down his throat, memories
he didn't want to remember. He resented the manipulation, even as he gave into it.

Slouching, hands in his pockets, he felt himself revert to Tommie Ruiz, to that unlovable kid whose butt
Myra had cared enough about to kick, and kick, and never stop kicking until he had made something out
of himself. “That was years ago. What did I know? I was too young to understand that poor kids don't
take music lessons.”

“I'm thinkin’ Seraphina Norris wants to reach kids before they ever have to learn that little piece of bad
news.”

That said, his best girl tossed her donut back in the greasy cardboard box and pinned him with the same
look that had inspired terror in his heart all those years before.

Myra Samuels had been crossing the street, a bag of groceries in each arm, when on the run from the
cops, he'd accidentally knocked into her and mowed her right down. He'd been a tough, wise-mouthed
delinquent, but he'd been no match for the infuriated Myra when her produce hit asphalt. He didn't know
what grief was until Myra let him have some of hers. After reading him the riot act, she stood over him
while he wiped her smashed carton of eggs up off the street. Upon learning he was a throwaway kid, she
took him in, fed him, and gradually added him to her collection of strays. He'd lived with her and Bill,

Myra's long-suffering husband, for two years. They never had any children of their own, but that didn't
mean there was ever a chair at their kitchen table going empty come supper time. They were always
feeding somebody or other; always taking some lost soul into their lives, into their home, into their huge
hearts.

Myra was the one who encouraged him to get his G.E.D., who got him doing small carpentry jobs for
her neighbors. When he found out he was good working with his hands, she was the one who urged him
to get some decent skills.

After a stint in the military, he'd started up his own construction outfit. It wasn't easy, but Myra had been
with him every step of the way. Stuff like that a man doesn't forget.

Tommie Ruiz slumped to the trailer door. “If anyone wants me later on tonight, tell them I'm on the
Southside visiting a crazy music teacher.”

“Will do, boss,” Myra said, and went back to her newspaper reading.

* * * *

From behind her rusted screen door, Seraphina asked, “What are you doing here, Mr. Ruiz? You
already informed me that you expect me off the premises by the end of the month. As I have a perfectly
good memory, there's no need for a daily reminder.”

“Yeah. Well. About that. I was in the neighborhood and I just thought-” He fingered his silver earring.
“Listen, I know it's late, but can I come in?”

“I suppose you are the landlord,” Seraphina said, voice testy, and about as far away from hospitable as
a tenant about to be evicted could get.

She stepped back and away, giving the man in the black T-shirt and black jeans plenty of room.

Not that it helped; the porch seemed to shrink to half its former size when Tomas Ruiz stepped over the
rotten threshold.

It wasn't just that he was tall. Or that he had muscles. Tomas Ruiz had that indefinable thing called
presence; he overpowered the space with his raw strength and vitality...and sense of purpose.

She'd always been a sucker for a man with a mission. Too bad Tomas Ruiz's inner calling was all about
making a fast buck, and darn the consequences. Too bad he had a powerful impact on her, anyway.

She supposed it was the way he looked at her. As though she was the only one, the only thing on his
mind. Awfully seductive, having a young and handsome man's undivided interest. That had certainly never
happened to her before.

Fortunately, she was on to Tomas Ruiz. She knew why he was turning on the charm. He wanted her out
of the house so he could crank up those bulldozes and get that demolition ball swinging.

Unfortunately, knowing he had an ulterior motive, she was drawn to him anyway.

Sex. It was all about sex. All about hot loins and wet places and her shameful need for a man. Married
to a good man, a Godly man for five years, widowed for one, and yet she stood helpless before Tomas

Ruiz's irresistibly naughty pull.

Today his glossy black hair was swept back from his forehead and looked wet from a recent shower.
The wealth of it was tied at the back of his muscled neck with a piece of rawhide. She wanted to yank at
the thin leather tie until that thick mane fell like black Spanish silk through her fingers. She wanted to strip
off her cotton blouse, her knee-length straight skirt, all of her underwear, and draw his dark head down
to her belly, feel the ends of that long, thick, black hair tickle her bare skin-

What on earth was happening to her? Why was she having these sexual thoughts about this
rough-looking, tough-talking, young man?

To contradict her illicit thoughts, she drew back her shoulders and offered him a cool, self-possessed,
very balanced and mature, almost maternal smile. “Mr. Ruiz, let's cut through the fat and get to the bare
bone, shall we? Tell me why you're here.”

“As a courtesy, I wanted to inform both you and your husband that I'm moving my trailer onto the site at
the end of the month.”

“I see. A courtesy. How very thoughtful. But you see, there's only me you need to tell. I'm a widow.”

Even when not twitching with laughter, Tomas Ruiz had a sexy mouth-

Though his brown skin tones were not nearly as attractive with that sickly green cast.

After muttering a coarse word under his breath, he turned greener still. “My language. I'm sorry.” He
shook his head. “I didn't know that you'd lost your husband, Mrs. Norris.”

A pulse beat beside a chiseled jaw; dark eyes dropped to the floor. “I apologize for my thoughtless
remark. But seeing that you're alone, that's even more reason for you to leave this neighborhood. You
know about the crime rate on the Southside. That's why you were so jumpy yesterday-”

“Thank you for your concern, but I overreacted yesterday. I assure you, I will not overreact again.”

To prove that to herself, she ignored the awful attraction she felt for this man. Rather than call him on his
ulterior motive, which would have served no purpose other than to antagonize him, Seraphina instead
tried a little diplomacy. “Mr. Ruiz-”

“Tomas,” he corrected. “Call me Tomas.”

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Tomas it is.”

Why not call him by his first name? He was practically a teenager; it was the height of absurdity to
continue to address him as Mr. Ruiz. She did not, however, return the favor by telling him to call her
Seraphina. She was years older, and she needed a reminder of that age difference to prevent the
possibility of foolish behavior. Also, the day before, when he'd said her first name, the sexy intonation
had done strange fluttery things to her belly. She certainly did NOT want that happening again.

“Tomas-” Goodness! There was that same flutter, low in her belly. How ridiculous! She was an adult
woman who'd lost her husband, a husband she had respected in life and whose goodness she missed in
death. How could her body betray her this way?

Fiercely disregarding the butterfly sensation, she began all over again. “Tomas, it's no secret that I want
to stay at the mansion. It's also no secret that you want me gone. Couldn't we reach a compromise in this
situation?”

He looked up. “How?”

She made a wide circular motion with her hand. “Couldn't you build your new houses around the
mansion? I mean, the house is located on the very top of the hill. You could still build your houses at the
bottom and up along the slope of the drive. Just leave me enough land for parking. And, of course, the
summer amphitheater.”

“What the hell-excuse my language—is an amphitheater?”

“An oval or round structure having tiers of seats rising gradually outward from an open arena at the
center. Generally used for entertainment purposes.”

“Like a boxing arena?”

“Well-er-yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“Why didn't you just say so?”

Because Oscar de la Hoya aside, she wasn't a huge sport's fan, that's why. “It wouldn't be as large as a
boxing arena.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Or nearly as entertaining.”

She was not a sports fan and obviously, Tomas Ruiz was not a music fan. What a relief that they had
nothing in common, that there was no meeting of the minds!

“Well-ahem-let's get back to our negotiations, shall we?” she said briskly. “If it's the amount of the rental
I agreed upon with Mr. Anderson, I could manage to pay you a little more every month.”

“It's not about the money! Apart from you living alone in an abandoned building in a high crime zone, this
mansion is structurally unsound. It'll never meet code for a school.”

“Code?”

“Building specs.”

“I guarantee the mansion will meet...uh...code before the school opens in September.”

“Where's a widowed music teacher gonna come up with the investment capital needed to fix up this
dump?”

Money.

With some people, like Tomas Ruiz, it was always about the bottom line.

CHAPTER FIVE

Seraphina smoothed her fingers over her straight tan skirt. “I don't see where my financial situation is
any of your concern,” she said primly.

“I'm not getting all in your business. All I'm interested in is getting you off my property. You're not safe
here.” He scratched his temple. “Ain't nowhere in this whole neighborhood that's safe for a woman like
you.”

She kept her temper. Barely. What kind of a woman was she? She had no idea any more. Though,
obviously, this man seemed to think he had her pegged. “Believe me, I have lived in far worse
neighborhoods than this one. And, I like it here.”

“Yeah, well, the funky ambience will wear thin pretty quick on a woman like you.”

There was that woman like you again. This was getting her anywhere, time to try a different approach...

“My goodness,” she said, going for sweet, “all I'm trying to do is level the playing field a bit by offering
low-income children equal access to music lessons through an extensive, and privately funded,
scholarship program. Any, and all donations are greatly appreciated.” She paused, smiled, heaped on the
saccharine. “I wish you'd try to understand the needs of these disadvantaged children.”

“Oh, I understand, all right! I understand that Southside kids need more than the pipe dreams of a
do-gooder. Hell, I've seen my share of philanthropists like you. You think you can blow into a
neighborhood, make a whole lot of pretty promises about establishing social programs, and then split
when you get bored or your white gloves get soiled. What you don't realize is that when you get tired of
slumming, and hurry back to your neat little life, in your neat little neighborhood, in your clean-window
suburb, you leave a bunch of disappointed little kids behind. The Southside is damn messy, lady, and a
bottle of window cleaner ain't gonna fix it!”

Seraphina felt her face grow flushed. “That is flagrantly unfair! I am not like that. I've never even owned
a pair of white gloves!”

But Tomas Ruiz didn't seem to hear her; he continued on with his rant.

“These kids need something solid, something they can build on, in their lives. They need job
opportunities, apprenticeship programs, a way to make an honest living. What they don't need is a
do-gooder lady with empty, reckless promises. So, I won't change my mind about the school. These kids
don't need music lessons. And I want your tail out of here by the end of the month.”

“Why don't these kids need music in their lives?” Her chin jutted, impressed by his passion, but at the
same, defending her own commitment. “Because they're poor?”

“Exactly,” he said, scorn registering in every syllable. “Because they're poor. Ain't that what I just said?”

“I don't think I like your attitude.”

“Ditto here, Mrs. Norris! You think you can solve world problems with one tap of your magic musical
baton. If that ain't attitude, what is?”

“It's not attitude when someone tries to make a difference through hard work-”

She stopped. Frowned. “I wonder,” she said, genuinely seeking his candor, “if other people in town feel
as you do about the school? I assumed everyone felt positively, because I was made to feel so welcome
at the Chamber of Commerce happy hour given on the school's behalf.”

“Sorry. I missed you sing Carmen that night. Myself, I can't tolerate all that operatic screeching. So I
don't know what the general consensus was about the school.”

“Too bad you weren't in attendance. My vocal performance had never been better and the school
received some wonderful scholarship funding as a result of my public relations schmoozing. And, the hors
d'ouevres were really quite good, too.”

“Yeah, well, I make it a habit never to eat things I can't spell.”

“My goodness, how extraordinarily limiting for you.”

She smiled.

He smirked.

Sex. This was all about sex. This one-upsmanship wasn't about the school at all. This was verbal
foreplay. Despite herself, she was physically attracted to Tomas Ruiz, and if the difficulty he had keeping
his eyes focussed on her face, not on her breasts, was any indication, her landlord was physically
attracted to her as well.

She didn't take it any too personally. According to local legend, Tomas Ruiz was attracted to anything
with a GYN and a heartbeat. And she was...well...she was the cliché of the lonely and sexually frustrated
widow.

Regardless of the reasons for the attraction, at the very least, they could drop the tedious,
quasi-flirtatious bantering and be honest about what was beneath their sparring. There was an undeniable
electrical undercurrent buzzing back and forth between them, which they could either ignore or act upon.
As consenting adults, it was up to them what they decided to do.

The first step was to apologize for her sarcasm, which was sexual displacement at its very worst.

She was about to do just that when she was beaten to the punch.

“Mrs. Norris-about the operatic screeching crack-I'm sorry. Just to let you know, I heard you singing
when I left the house yesterday and you sounded like an angel,” Tomas offered in a low and tractable
voice.

She was equally subdued. “Apology accepted. And about the hors d'ouevres comment—I also
apologize. I can't spell the darn word either. For years, I mispronounced it as ‘horse doovers'.

They laughed. It felt good, almost like the beginning of a friendship.

An impossibility, of course, since they were on different sides in the school debate and, apart from that,
friends don't generally throw friends out onto the street, leaving them homeless and virtually unemployed.
And there was that pesky sexual awareness thing happening between them too. Something like that could
ruin the chance of a friendship developing between a man and a woman, any man and woman.

She had to face it, her mind wasn't on doing lunch; her mind was on sweaty sheets and lusty sighs and
musky smells, things she knew nothing about. A pity they were involved in an adversarial tug-of-war,
because, from a purely practical point of view, she was quite sure that a little meaningless sex with Tomas
Ruiz would do her lingering depression a world of good. In fact, mindless copulation would probably be
just what the doctor ordered.

Taking a deep breath, Seraphina tried to bring her wayward thoughts back on track. “Tomas, I really
would like to know what people think about the school. You must hear things. People talk-”

“I'm not exactly anybody's sounding board in town. Frankly, I'm usually on the receiving end of gossip.”

“How difficult for you,” she said softly, sympathetically...and entirely misdirected, considering to whom
she was speaking. After all, she had planned on doing a media blitz that would make him the scourge of
Fenton. Now, the idea left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. How petty and vindictive too, to think two
wrongs ever made a right...

“I can't say I haven't heard about your reputation, Tomas. But I want you to know, I don't give gossip
much credence.”

In reply, Tomas Ruiz shrugged, the lift of his shoulders telling her nothing.

Seraphina didn't want the stories to be true! She wanted him to deny the gossip, for if the stories about
him were true, then the situation was hopeless; Tomas Ruiz was known, not only as Fenton's most
notorious womanizer, but also as a man who cared about nothing but the almighty dollar. According to
the circulating gossip, her landlord was an opportunist who let nothing and no one stand in the way of
what he wanted-

Yet, he had also spoken with such passion, such conviction, about job opportunities, apprenticeship
programs, a way for the young people of the Southside to make an honest living. His approach had
sounded so practical.

In that respect, they were very similar. She too was a practical person; pragmatism was her religion,
realism her faith. So, one would think they could make some sort of deal, reach some sort of
compromise, arrive at an arrangement that would benefit both of them-

Unless, Tomas Ruiz's speech about the needs of Southside children was just another one of his lines-

Her pride was a short nylon thread with a small, slippery knot at the end. But it was all that she had. She
held onto that knot in a death grip, lest she break down in tears in front of this man, who was, despite the
sexual attraction, really no more than a complete stranger, whose thoughts she didn't know, whose
motives were suspect.

Seraphina was certain of only this: she must not allow Tomas Ruiz, or anyone else, to weaken her
resolve to stay in the mansion. This house was a symbol to her; her last stand against the despair that
lurked inside her head, the line drawn in the sand against the depression that threatened to smother what
remained of her spirits. She would do whatever she must do to stay in the Monroe mansion, for there
was no place else for her to go but deeper into sadness.

Clasping her hands together as if in prayer—though she'd lost the ability to pray months before-she dug
the fingernails of her right hand into the fleshy palm of her left hand, a test done to make sure she was
totally numb. “You've accomplished what you came here to do and now you may leave. You have

houses to build. Don't let me detain a busy man like yourself.”

In a dismissive manner, she started for the kitchen door.

She was halfway there, when her no-nonsense, conservatively straight skirt caught on one of the many
exposed nails along the wall. She did all the usual things to free herself: tugging, pulling, saying a few
select bad words under her breath. But no matter what she did, she couldn't get the darn nail to loosen its
hold on her. This was just so typical!

She was about to haul off and rip the foolish nail head through the material when Tomas dropped to a
graceful kneel at her feet and reached for the skirt's hem.

“Here, allow me,” he said.

She could've told him not to bother. Swatted his hands away. She could've done any number of things to
keep him from touching her. Instead, her eyes dropped to the dark crown of Tomas Ruiz's head and she
imagined what else he might do for her there on his knees at the center of her body.

I'm so bad! She thought.

“Steady,” Tomas said, low and sexy. “Just hold still. Let me do all the work.”

How many times, and in how many different bedrooms, had the man kneeling at her feet uttered those
very same words to a woman? How many bare female legs had he walked his hand up?

Hundreds, more than likely. Thousands, according to the gossip.

In the course of untangling her from the nail, brown fingers ran over the crease in her knee. In an effort to
get her mind off her rising body temperature, she said, “Do you know anything about the care of erotic-I
mean, exotic plants? I was considering planting some this summer. One gets so bored with the same old
marigolds.”

“Look around you. No flowers will grow here, Mrs. Norris. Any seeds that come up wither and die.
Only weeds survive. Maybe in a few years things will improve, not right now.”

She couldn't wait a few years. For the sake of her sanity, she needed to involve herself in the school.
Right now. Today. She had much too much time on her hands. That's why she was fantasizing about
Tomas Ruiz, thinking prurient thoughts about what she wanted him to do to her...

“This is taking forever,” she said breathlessly. “Are you freeing me from the wall or nailing me to it?”

Dark eyes twinkling, he gazed up at her. “If I was nailing you, trust me, you'd know it.”

It took her a second of backtracking to understand the gaffe she'd made.

What a complete idiot! She was making a fool of herself. Misspeaking left and right.

“I didn't mean that the way it came out.” Her sluggish brain rephrased the question. “That is, you've been
working on me a long time-is there a problem?”

“If I was working on you, ruca, you'd be too damned busy to ask all these damn questions.”

Her hands went to her hips. “I meant working on my hem!” she sputtered.

“I know what you meant. I'm just teasing you.”

“I'd wish you'd stop!”

He gave her hem a tug. “All done,” he said, and her skirt dropped back down below her knees.

But his large, capable hand loitered on her bare leg at the level of her calf. Her bare calf.

Fearful of getting a run in her brand-new pantyhose-she was on a strict budget-she'd removed her
stockings to work around the house. Now she was paying the price for her economy.

Oh, but there was such strength in the brown fingers touching her leg! Such confidence. The man exuded
masculine power from every sinew and muscle.

Why did some men have everything, while other men have nothing, not even the promise of a tomorrow?
Why did good men die too young?

Her husband was only fifty, just middle-aged, when he'd died of the cholera epidemic that had swept
through their small missionary school in India, taking him, and more than half the village population. The
Southside music school was her new home. Her new beginning. Her new purpose in life. Without it, how
would she force herself to go on? How would she convince herself to drag her body out of bed in the
morning?

If she'd only had a child...

She'd desperately wanted a baby. But there was no little boy or girl.

Perhaps her childlessness was just as well. Many children had died in the cholera outbreak. She could
not have borne the loss of a child. Why hadn't she died too?

She'd wanted to die. When she'd sickened, she'd prayed to be taken. She'd made bargains with a God
she no longer believed in to be substituted for a sick child, her life for theirs. After all, there was nothing in
her future but emptiness, for she knew if she recovered, she'd have to return home to the States. What
kind of a missionary has no faith? What kind of missionary is a closet atheist?

It wasn't stoicism that prevented Seraphina from giving into self-pity; it wasn't courage that kept the tears
from forming behind her lids. She wished she could say she was wrung out from crying. That her tears
had left her feeling as rubbery as spaghetti cooked way past al dente. But it wasn't like that at all. What
she felt was so much worse than the purging sadness of normal grief.

Oh, for the healing balm of tears! There was nothing she wanted more than the exhaustion and merciful
sleep that come after a floodgate of emotion is released.

But there were no tears, only a pervasive sense of dullness...and the knowledge that she had no other
choice but to go on...without her husband, without the mission school in India. All by herself.

Through a hole in the porch roof, there above the thickly swarming mosquitoes, was a scattering of stars.
She'd only noticed them when she lifted her eyes to avoid coveting Tomas with her hungry gaze.

“My, it's a beautiful evening,” she sighed, as his large palm continued to rub the back of her leg.

“Make a wish,” Tomas Ruiz said, when one of those stars streaked across the sky.

She blinked at his romanticism. Then thought, why not? One person's wish was another person's prayer.
One person's superstition was another person's religion.

“I will if you will,” she replied.

“Sure.”

Seraphina closed her eyes and wished like she had never wished for anything before. But even as she
concentrated, she couldn't help but wonder what a virile man like Tomas Ruiz, a man in his prime, a man
who had women falling all over him, a man who had everything, could possibly have to wish for.

CHAPTER SIX

“I wish I had me one of those jazzy Hawaiian shirts,” Tomas said the following day as he removed his
tool belt in front of the trailer's miniscule closet. “A real splashy one with loud yellow and red exotic
flowers all over it, front and back.”

Myra finished filing her nails. “What the hell are you rambling on about now?”

“Haven't you ever noticed that male birds have more colorful plumage than female birds?”

“Nope, can't say that I have.”

“I've finally figured out that there's a reason for all those bright feathers: A guy's gotta get a lady's
attention somehow. I think a Hawaiian shirt might do that for me, especially if the lady has a thing for
exotic flowers. What do you think?”

“Rare birds? Exotic flowers? I think you're hanging out too much over at The Pink Flamingo.”

“That's right, Myra. Make fun of the simple wishes of a simple man.”

“You're simple, all right, if you think you need a hula-hula shirt to attract female attention!”

But he only wanted one woman's attention, and he was getting nowhere with her.

And even if he could get somewhere with her, hooking up with her wasn't right, her being a nice lady and
all...

Myra's nail file got thrown back in the desk drawer, and out of the blue, she hit him with her penetrating
gaze. “How bad do you really want the Riverfront Project, Tomas?”

“There's nothing I want more.”

“What are you willing to do to get it?”

“Anything,” he promptly replied, no deep concentration needed.

Myra started tapping her fingers on her desk blotter. “Your public relations stink.”

“Tell me something I don't already know.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. “How's this? Seraphina Norris is picking up a lot of goodwill in this town, and you might
catch some of that goodwill too if you hung onto her feel-good coattails.”

“The lady thinks I'm a real dud.”

“You are a real stud, hon. All the ladies say so. Work it to your advantage.”

“Dud! Not stud.”

Myra removed her hearing aid and shook it. “The damn battery is gone dead again. Okay. Shut-up and
let me do the talking. I'm not listening to you anyway.”

“What else is new?” he muttered under his breath.

“I heard that, you fresh thing!”

“Sorry,” he grumbled.

“Okay, the scuttlebutt says that Fred Connor is urging the planning board to go against your bid for the
downtown Riverfront Project. He doesn't like the bad-boy image you project. You gotta clean up that
image pronto if you want in on the Riverfront Project deal. Connor holds a lot of weight with the City
Council.”

“What are you suggesting I do, Myra?”

His administrative assistant hefted her feet up on the waste paper receptacle-he was gonna have to see
about sneaking her in a hassock one of these days-

“I'm suggesting you reconsider evicting Seraphina Norris, at least until a decision is made on the
Riverfront Project.”

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

“So happens, Connor is one of Seraphina Norris’ biggest supporters. He wants her to have that school,
and he wants her to have it at the old Monroe place.” Myra paused to take a wheezing breath. “You
might want to think about teaming up with that woman, boss. I like her. She's got guts. Determination. I
knew it the minute I set eyes on her over at the Chamber of Commerce. Probably comes from her being
a former missionary and all.”

“Seraphina Norris, a missionary? As in the position?”

Myra rolled her eyes. “As in church missionary! She worked with her minister folks. When they passed
on, she married, then worked with her minister husband in some of the worst slums in India. I just found
out today over at the diner that her husband died of cholera. She nursed him, and then stayed on to nurse
the sick kids in her school. She nearly died of cholera too, and she still wouldn't leave, not until her

church sent out a replacement. She was a sick a long time. She's only now getting back on her feet.”

“She told me she was a widow. But India?”

“Calcutta,” Myra supplied. “And stop asking me to repeat everything I say or I'll be lending you one of
my hearing aids.”

“I took her for one of these do-gooder types.”

“She's a do-gooder all right,” said Myra. “But she happens to be the real thing.”

* * * *

The university administrator stood up at his desk when Seraphina entered his office.

“I'm Dean Slater,” he said and motioned to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Norris.”

Smiling cordially, Seraphina took the chair indicated, placing the briefcase containing the inch-thick
folder of employment applications on her lap.

She only hoped she brought enough!

Wasting no time, she got right to the point. “How many teaching candidates do you have for me, Dean
Slater?”

“One.”

Seraphina blinked. “One?”

“Very few of our graduating seniors are willing to work in a high-crime area for the salary you quoted
over the phone.”

“But that's all I can afford to pay.” She bit her lip. “I suppose I could come up with a bit more-”

Dean Slater shook his head. “Even if you doubled the salary, you'd still get very few applicants. The
Southside doesn't have the best reputation, my dear.”

“I see.” Seraphina studied her hands while she recovered from the blow just dealt her. When her
disappointment was under control, she looked straight into Dean Slater's eyes. “Can you tell me
something about the applicant?”

A resume was pushed across the shiny mahogany desk.

“Calia Vasquez is one of our brightest, most talented students. I have to be honest with you, it was for
that reason that I tried to discourage this young lady from applying.” The administrator shook his gray
head; his disapproval was obvious. “But as soon as Miss Vasquez heard about the school, she insisted
you interview her, despite my objections.”

“What instrument does she play?”

“Miss Vasquez is a promising concert violinist. Her enormous talents will be wasted in the classroom.”

“Why don't we let her decide where her talents are best suited?”

Dean Slater looked offended. “I am not saying that teaching is not an admirable profession; I am an
educator, myself. If teaching is really what she wants to do, why should this young lady sacrifice her time
and her talents when she could work in an affluent neighborhood, at a prestigious school? Calia comes
from a wonderful, professional family. Her father is a doctor, her mother a lawyer. All her brothers and
sister are well-educated and successful. She's a high-achiever as well. That young lady can go places! I
suppose,” he went on thoughtfully, “because of her Hispanic heritage she feels some sense of
responsibility-”

Seraphina's heart pounded. “Miss Vasquez is bilingual?”

“Well, yes. English and Spanish. But merely because she's fluent in both languages doesn't mean she
needs to teach in that particular neighborhood with those particular children.”

“Don't you see? There's every need. The Southside has a large Latino population. Please send her in at
once!”

Dean Slater ushered in a pretty, dark-haired, trim-figured, young woman. Then, closing the door behind
him, he left them alone in the office.

Her application-stuffed briefcase forgotten, Seraphina jumped out of the chair and raced forward. If
ever a situation didn't call for a handshake it was this one.

Holding the young student by both hands, lest she get away, Seraphina demanded, “Tell me why you
want to teach at my school.”

Calia Vasquez's smile was serene. “That's easy. I'm from the Southside. I'm going home where I
belong.”

The director of the Southside's Conservatory of Music hugged her new teacher.

* * * *

Seraphina was cleaning. But at the first grating knock on the screen, she went to her back door.

Upon seeing the broom in her hand, Tomas Ruiz threw his hands up in the air. “First you squirt me with
window wash, now you're gonna broom me? What's next? You gonna suck me up in your vacuum or
somethin'?”

“Oh, very funny,” she said dryly. “I'll have you know I've given up using cleaning agents as weapons.”

He dimpled. “You still sweep me away, Miz Norris.”

Oh, he was such a flirt!

“Talking about sucking up,” she said, stepping aside for him to enter her home. “I know why you're here:
Your lawyer just called.”

“Oh? Why?”

She sent him an impatient look.

“Honest, I don't know why the legal dude called.”

Her new landlord certainly looked innocent...

Looks didn't mean a thing. “Your attorney suggested I leave the mansion sooner rather than later as I
don't have a legal foundation to fight the eviction. So-if you've come here to gloat, please spare me. As
you can see, I'm very busy.”

The comic clutched at his heart. “You wound me. I'm not here to gloat.”

“Then why are you here?”

The broom was gently removed from her grip. “I'm here to help.”

As Tomas began rhythmically sweeping the porch-he did everything with a musical flare-her hands
bracketed her hips. “Why? Afraid I'll sue if I stub my toe on one of these loose floorboards?”

“Could be.” His dark eyes twinkled.

With his bad-boy looks and naughty charm, no wonder Tomas Ruiz had a womanizing reputation. He
had to know his affect upon women, Seraphina thought, scooping dirt into her dustpan. All charismatic
men did.

Feeling utterly un-charming, she looked up dourly at the engaging young man with the dark, laughing
eyes. “You're hardly forcing me to live here, Tomas. We both know it's the exact opposite; you want me
out. So why are you sweeping my porch?”

“I already told you-I want to help you out.”

So, he wanted to help he out, did he? She'd soon see...

Her next thought was spoken aloud. “As it so happens, I could use your help.”

“Just name it.”

“Fine, I shall. In order to make repairs to this house, I'll need to find another job,” she said tactlessly.
“Currently, I give private piano lessons-”

“To rich kids.”

“Yes, to advantaged children,” she bristled. “Plus, I substitute teach at the high school. But I'll need a job
nights and weekends to help defray the costs of my school. I understand you own a strip club. The Pink
Flamingo. Are you hiring any new employees?”

Dark eyes lowered and quickly skimmed her chest. “Mrs. Norris, my employees wear pink feathers.”

He didn't have to tell her that! She was well aware that the feathers to which Tomas Ruiz referred made
up the costume the exotic dancers wore. All the costume that they wore. Luckily, she was no prude. As

far as she was concerned, a body is only a body, and she felt very little embarrassment about hers.

Except her rear end, which was...well...abundant. Too bad her breasts weren't equally abundant. Would
a few strategically placed feathers cover her pear-shaped figure?

Evidently, Tomas Ruiz had his doubts. She thought, more amused than anything else by the shocked
expression on his face.

“You know,” he said, rubbing his chronic two-day beard growth. “I don't think The Flamingo would be
a good fit for you. And about the eviction notice, I've been thinking...I could maybe extend it-”

At his humble sincerity, pain formed behind her lids; her eyes shuttered down against it. Who was this
man anyway? What was he all about? Had she been too quick to judge?

She did tend to jump to conclusions too rapidly at times. Maybe, Tomas Ruiz was more than a
money-grubbing ogre. Maybe, he had some scruples. Maybe, it really was concern for her, and not the
quest for the almighty buck, that brought him knocking at her door again. And maybe, just maybe, behind
that laughing face and bad-boy charisma, there was some hidden depth.

Naw-

What she saw was all there was to Tomas Ruiz; there was nothing below that charming surface.

“I don't need an extension,” she said, tightly. “I need to stay here. Permanently. I teach music. That's
what I do. That's how I pay my bills. You don't seem to approve of that method, nor do you approve of
me stripping-”

Practicality made her inquire, “How much is the pay at The Pink Flamingo, anyway?”

When he threw out a figure, her eyes bugged; the amount was more than she could make all week
substitute teaching at the high school. For one night in feathers!

He looked at her squinting eyes. “Headache?” he asked.

“Like the pounding of a percussion section. After interviewing prospective candidates for teaching
positions, I then substituted half a day for an ill band teacher at the high school. Let's just say that the
drum section was a tad off-count,” she explained, suddenly feeling very, very weary. And much too
vulnerable to this man's obvious appeal.

“Listen, we started off all wrong. And we never did shake hands. Can we maybe start over again?”
Transferring the broom to his left hand, Tomas stuck out his right palm.

Seraphina stared at the firm unwavering hand extended to her as though it were a deadly snake in the
bushes, waiting to rattle.

“Aw, go on,” he prodded. “It's only a handshake, right?”

Right. It was only a handshake. Ignoring his proffered palm was silly, if not downright rude. More
importantly, she never backed down from a challenge, and that extended palm was most definitely a
challenge. And a handshake with Tomas did fall under the umbrella of her PMS theory ...

When it was that time of the month, she found a small nibble of candy often forestalled a full-fledged
gorge on a family-sized pack of chocolate bars. Using that same logic, a handshake might just satisfy her
craving to touch Tomas Ruiz in a socially acceptable manner. Wasn't it better to clasp a man's fingers
than to jump his bones? And, to be charitable, everyone deserved a second chance, everyone deserved
the opportunity to start over again. Wasn't she, herself, trying to make a new start?

Taking a step closer, her hand determinedly slipped into his hand.

As was expected in such situations, she raised her face to his, a polite social smile pasted dutifully in
place.

The problem was that they were so close, mere inches from one another. When debating the whole
handshake issue, she hadn't taken closeness into consideration.

She should have. Now that she within his personal space and he within hers, her cheek muscles faltered.
Twitched. Finally, the social smile gave out altogether. Mouth-open, she simply gawked at the splendid
maleness of Tomas Ruiz.

He was a man too roughly hewn for ordinary handsomeness, though his amazingly thick black lashes
helped soften his face. Still, nothing could soften a jaw that seemed built out of granite not bone, and a
nose that was of jutting proportions. And his dark eyes! What could be said about that feature that
wouldn't sound trite and hackneyed and cliched?

What she could say, she supposed, was that those dark eyes were definitely not the windows to his soul,
but they were most definitely his calling card to any woman's bedroom on the planet.

As they stood there, hands clasped, fingers entwined-no shake, no pump, no motion at all-Seraphina
knew her PMS theory did not apply here; a small nibble of Tomas Ruiz wouldn't do the trick. Only an all
out orgy of him would satisfy her craving.

And there stood Tomas Ruiz, looking at her as if he knew exactly, precisely, what she was thinking.

Why wouldn't he know? He must get this exact same reaction from every female he encountered. He
was so healthy and young and virile and sexy, like an untamed animal, that she would've wept if she
could.

She couldn't cry. Hadn't been able to shed one tear. Not for her dead husband, not for all those dead
children, not for herself, forced to go on without them. Some tragedies are far too deep for tears.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Norris,” Tomas Ruiz said formally, his large brown hand clasped around
her much smaller, much paler hand.

“Seraphina,” she said, mouth dry, lips barely parted, breaths coming and going in shallow pants. “Please
call me Seraphina.”

“Seraphina,” he softly repeated. “Thank you. I'd like that.” He smiled. “Tomorrow, Seraphina, I'll start
asking around town about part-time work for you. With the building surge, Fenton's economy is
improving. There's bound to be an opening somewhere.”

“That's very sexy of you,” she replied, her palm still in his palm, reluctant to let go of his warmth.

He grinned. “Thanks for the compliment.”

What compliment?

Brow wrinkled, she thought backwards, blushing when she recalled the slip in her speech. “I misspoke. I
meant to say that's very-er-solicitous of you.”

“Gee, I'm crushed. And here I work so hard at being sexy too.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Ain't I at least muy suave’ ?” He dimpled. “Aw, c'mon! Give me smooth, anyway!”

Sighing, Seraphina withdrew her hand.

She didn't think Tomas Ruiz had to work all that hard at anything, certainly not at being sexy or smooth
or muy suave. Sure, he'd cultivated his natural attributes with various poses and posturing, and he'd
enhanced his bad-boy image with a black T-shirt and jeans wardrobe, but essentially the man was just
naturally sexy. Some men had animal magnetism, some men didn't. Tomas had it.

“You know, I'd be more than happy to help you find another place to live too.” Tomas Ruiz broke into
her thoughts to offer.

“That is not the kind of help I need!” Tugging her hand free, before she did something she'd later regret,
she started to walk away.

“Hold up!” Tomas pulled a pink card from the pocket of his black jeans and held it out between two
fingers. “Here's the manager's name at The Flamingo. Be there at two o'clock sharp.” His smile dazzled;
there was a teasing dare in his voice. “If that's convenient for you.”

She retraced her steps, lifted the card from his fingers, read the fine print beneath the practically
pornographic logo, and said dryly, “I guess I should get my legs waxed. Looks like those feathers don't
hide much.”

“Know how to lap dance?” he asked, his firm lips trembling at the corners.

She met and matched the challenge of those twitching lips. Tomas Ruiz was not winning this sexual
one-upsmanship. “No. Should I signup for an accelerated class somewhere?”

Tomas washed his hands over his face. “Okay, we've both had our fun. Hand back the card.”

“I'll do nothing of the sort!” she said, slipping the delicate pink rectangle into the pocket of her navy blue
skirt. “I'm going. After all, how difficult is taking off one's clothes to a drumbeat? It's not as though I'll be
entirely naked. There are those pink feathers to consider.”

“Wait a minute! You can't strip! You're a nice woman-”

“Oh, please! Spare me the moral outrage. You are not the keeper of my values. Believe it or not, I don't

happen to have nice woman tattooed on my rear end,” she said defiantly. “Now about those pink
feathers-would a wealthy man like you push a hundred dollar bill down the front of my G-string for a few
extra grunts and grinds?”

Based on past experience, she already knew the answer: Even if she were up on that stage, entirely
naked, Tomas Ruiz would never even notice. She did not inspire lust in men.

Though-he did seem to like her breasts. She'd caught him eyeing them more than once when he thought
she wasn't looking. Real breasts must be novelty items in the female circles in which he traveled, she
thought, chuckling to herself.

“What's so funny?” Tomas Ruiz asked.

“Breasts.”

“W-what?” he stammered, and could she believe, blushed? “Breasts aren't funny. Breasts are serious
business.”

“My goodness! I believe we've finally stumbled onto a subject upon which we can both agree.” She
slanted him an arched look. “Though, for different reasons, I'm sure. In my opinion, the purpose of a
woman's breasts, Tomas, is for the nurturing of babies. More and more, though, breasts are seen mainly
as ...well... decorative, hardly functional at all, their value relegated to what size bra cup they fill. That
trivializes their importance.”

“See that? Just like I said, breasts are serious business.”

“And you seriously enjoy looking at mine.”

Tomas, the sexy man of the bad reputation, looked away bashfully. “Ease up, woman! A Latino male
never discusses such things with a lady.”

“Oh, go on! Admit it! You ogle my breasts when you think I won't notice.”

“Admitted,” he grumbled, looking anywhere but at them, now that they were out in the open, so to
speak.

“So answer my question-would you push a hundred dollar bill down the front of my G-string for a few
extra grunts and grinds?”

Frowning darkly at her, Tomas Ruiz said, “Ask for Lou. Two o'clock sharp.”

* * * *

The Pink Flamingo was located in a freshly painted building-bright pink, naturally-in Fenton's ‘X-rated’
entertainment zone. The bar was wedged like a thong between an open-all-night adult movie house and
an open-all-night adult bookstore. Every city in every country in the world had a similar district and
similar entertainment. Goodness knows, she'd spent enough time on streets like these to know exactly
what went on inside.

Her parents’ ecclesiastical calling was a mission of the streets. Since the time she was old enough to use
a ladle, she'd been given an apron and put to God's work in soup kitchens. She'd seen her share of

misery; she'd also seen things that gave her reason to hope, things that made her spirits soar, things that
uplifted her. And so nothing she saw here on the Southside's X-rated zone surprised or shocked her in
any way...

...except, directly across the street from the Pink Flamingo, in an old abandoned warehouse, was a teen
drop-in center. What was that doing here?

Curious, and with plenty of time on her hands before her audition, she took a quick peek in the large
storefront windows.

The brick building itself was clean and neat; the interior was bright and cheerful. There was plenty for
kids to do too. There were pool tables, a large screen TV, P.C's. A boxing ring and assorted weights
and exercise equipment took up one half of the downstairs. There were even-gasp—books shelved
against a wall. And not just dogged-eared paperbacks either. Hard-covers. Best-sellers, as well as the
classics.

She would have loved nosing around inside, but unfortunately, the rec center was locked. Seraphina
wondered about that, until she read the sign posted on the door: ‘This facility is open only after school
hours and on weekends. Fully staffed by licensed professionals.’ Underneath the sign was a long list of
community service courses offered; to the side, was a short list of rules.

It was all very impressive and costly too, she thought re-crossing the street and entering The Pink
Flamingo.

As her eyes winced their adjustment from the sunshine outside to the dark interior of the strip club, a thin
man in a tan suit-vaguely reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca-called out from behind the bar,
“You must be Seraphina Norris.”

“Why yes, I am.”

The barkeep put aside the whiskey glass he was drying, and walked toward her, hand extended. “I'm
Lou Franco, the Flamingo's manager. And bartender. And bouncer. And a few other titles I wouldn't
want to tell a lady.”

“We spoke earlier on the phone. How do you do?” she said, with a brisk, business-like shake; this might
be a strip club, but an employment interview was an employment interview, regardless of the job
description.

Upon hearing them, a statuesque redhead in a pink, cleavage-revealing silk robe, undulated over. She
turned to Seraphina. “I heard you sing at the Chamber of Commerce happy hour. You've got a great set
of lungs, hon.” The redhead's smile was both gracious and warm. “Roxanne True,” she introduced
herself. “I'm a stripper here.”

“Exotic dancer,” Lou corrected, wearing an unhappy expression. “You're not a stripper, Rox. I don't
employ strippers at the Flamingo. All my girls have genuine talent. You're entertainers, each and every
one of you. If you get the job, Seraphina, you'll keep your feathers on,” Lou said without equivocation.
“This is a high-class establishment I'm operating here.”

The barkeep's manner was direct and forthright. Seraphina liked him immediately.

“Lou is a former police detective, hon. You won't have to worry about any of the customers stepping

out of line with him on duty. And he's always on duty,” Roxanne confided, rolling her beautifully
expressive blue eyes at Seraphina. “The man has absolutely no life.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Lou agreed. “Rox, listen. Can you show Seraphina the dressing room while I finish
setting up?”

“Sure, Lou. Walk this way, hon.”

Seraphina knew she couldn't walk that way even after a million years of dance lessons; her hips just
weren't made for slow and sexy undulations.

The small dressing room was festooned with pink-feathered costumes: hanging from hooks on the walls,
flung over chairs, folded neatly in the wardrobe. There were also quite a few cute pictures of flamingos
on the walls. Without meaning to, Seraphina's thoughts returned to India, where real live flamingos had
nested in a stream near her mission school. She would often spend quiet time alone there by the water,
sitting on the riverbank, bare feet dangling in the muddy stream, watching the beautiful wading birds as
they fished. She could still remember how the birds’ stick legs wobbled against the current, their long,
flexible necks dipped low, their bills submerged in the brown river.

Not all of her memories of India were mournful; some were really quite lovely.

A sharp stab of pain pierced her heart. She welcomed it; the ability to feel pain at least signified that she
was still alive.

“It's generous of you to show me around, Miss True,” Seraphina said politely.

“It's just plain Rox, hon. And generosity has nothing to do with it. I remember my first day here as
though it was yesterday. I was so scared, I thought I'd throw up on stage. Dancing in front of a crowd
takes some getting used to. What I learned to do is to tune everything out but the music.”

Seraphina smiled. “That's what I do too, Rox.”

“And this place ain't so bad. Lou really does keep the order around here and Tommie is great to work
for.”

“You know Tomas Ruiz?”

“We go way back, Tommie and me. He's one of the good guys. I understand he's the one who sent you
over for the job. Though, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem like Tommie's type.”

Seraphina laughed. “That's because I'm not! Tomas doesn't like or even approve of me.”

“That doesn't sound like the Tommie I know. He's never made rash calls about people.”

“Maybe not, ordinarily. But I'm a thorn in his side. I've rented the old Monroe mansion, the one he plans
on ripping down. It was my dream to rehab the house and grounds and turn the place into a music
school, but Tomas Ruiz is evicting me. He doesn't think I belong on the Southside.”

“My advice to you is stay there. Don't budge. He'll come ‘round.”

Seraphina shook her head. “I don't think he will-”

“Let me tell you something about Tomas Ruiz: All that guy needs is a stead and an aluminum suit and
he'd qualify as one of those old knights of yore. It's just that he's the protective type. Especially of
women. He's only looking out for you, hon. The guy's a real sweetheart.”

“You're on in five,” a voice yelled at the dressing room door.

“That's Ed, the stagehand. He works lights,” Roxanne explained. “He's a real pro and can make a gal
shine up there on stage, but he's a stickler when it comes to punctuality.” She gave Seraphina a reassuring
smile. “Change into your costume now, hon. Use the screen over there in the corner. And when you
come out, I'll give you a few pointers on how to keep your audience interested.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Ruiz Construction,” Myra grumbled into the telephone receiver after what Tomas thought was a
remarkably swift pick-up.

“Yeah, I know who this is and this better be good, Lou, ‘cause you just interrupted me during the most
important part of my day.” She tapped her fingers on the newspaper she'd been reading. “Okay, okay.
Don't get your silk boxers in a twist. I'll tell him.”

His administrative assistant cradled the receiver on her shoulder. “It's Lou calling from The Flamingo.
Says Seraphina Norris just walked in for her two o'clock audition. Says she's got her own costume and
music and everything. Says he wants to know what gives.”

Myra folded her arms over her barrel-chest. “So do I. Start talking, mister.”

Tomas mouth gaped. “I never figured her for a show.”

“She's a show, all right. And as it so happens, Lou's looking to hire a new stripper. Says he's one gal
short since Chi-chis left to finish hairdressing school.”

“Aw man! I forgot. But Mrs. Norris can't fill the vacancy. The woman's a missionary! What does she
know about exotic dancing?”

“Not much, evidently. She asked Lou if the swinging tassels came with clip-ons.”

Tomas did a twirling-point in front of his hard pecs. “These kind of swinging tassels?”

“You've got it.”

He covered his face and groaned. “Damn! I've messed up but good this time.”

“Nothin’ that can't be fixed,” Myra offered.

“Tell Lou I'll be right over.”

* * * *

“Where is she?” Tomas asked, racing through The Flamingo's hot-pink doors.

Lou glanced up from polishing the taps at the chrome bar. “You talking ‘bout Seraphina Norris?”

In an effort to find his cool, Tomas took a deep breath.

It didn't work. “Who the fuck else do you think I mean?”

The unflappable Lou stopped polishing. “Seraphina Norris is in the dressing room with Rox, changing
into her costume. And what the hell is up with you?”

“This is a mistake, Lou. I never should've set this thing up.” Tomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't
want her working here. Seraphina Norris is a former missionary,” he whispered, looking around and
barely mouthing the last word.

Lou's jaw dropped. “No shit? Takes all kinds, I guess. Gotta say, though, I knew there was something
different about her. That's why I called.”

“I'm glad you did. The woman knows nothing, Lou.”

“Well, man, she's here now and it looks like she wants to learn. It's not like it's the end of the world her
dancing here. She'll be okay. I'll keep my eye on her. Look out for her. Take care of her. How's that?”

“She's not working here.”

Lou slapped his cloth on the bar. “Why the hell not? The Flamingo's respectable, and so is the salary.
Seraphina Norris seemed strapped, eager to make some fast cash. Why shouldn't she work here?”

“She's only strapped cuz she's got this half-assed idea about turning the Monroe mansion into a music
school. That's why she's moonlighting, to fix up the place. But she ain't gonna need the extra cash, cuz I'm
tossing her out of there.”

“Nice move,” Lou said, in a jaded tone, as though he'd heard it all, seen it at all, and nothing surprised
him any more. “She got a puppy dog you can kick?”

“Don't look at me like that, ese. I got my reasons for wanting her to put a change of address card in with
the post office.”

“Everybody's got reasons.”

Tomas played with a bar menu. “The place is unsafe-”

“So's the world, my friend. You're in construction. Make the house safe.”

“There's more to it than that. I'm trying to correct the problem but-”

Tomas would say no more. They were pals, but Tomas never forgot that Lou was a former cop, strictly
straight, everything up and up, everything done by the book. Not the best way of handling dope dealers.

“Do me a favor, Lou. Just don't hire Seraphina Norris on as a stripper. She's not right for the job.”

Lou's eyes narrowed to slits. “I don't know where you get off, Ruiz, telling me how to manage The

Flamingo. I run a decent establishment here. You want me to resign, just say the word and I'm out the
door.”

“No, I don't want you to resign! I depend on you, and I don't want to interfere with your operation, but
so help me, if Seraphina Norris gets up on that stage and a guy so much as leers at her, or touches her
elbow, I'll-” Tomas crumbled the drink menu he was holding into a ball.

“So that's the way it is, eh?”

“Yeah, that's the way it is, Lou.”

The Flamingo's manager fingered his gray silk tie. “We're not the only bar in town. If she's tapped out,
who's to say she won't try some other club? And you and I both know, firsthand, some of those other
places are pretty raw even by our somewhat tarnished standards. They're covers for prostitution and
drugs. You want her working there, instead?”

“Give her a waitress job,” Tomas quickly interjected.

“Yeah. Right. I'll do that. I'll offer her a singing waitress job. How's that?”

“Why not? She could do burlesque numbers. Show tunes. I've heard her sing. She's got the voice.”

Lou paused, thinking. “It would add class to the place, I suppose.”

Just then, the woman they were discussing entered center stage, right, wearing a sari, the shimmering
material several shades darker than her golden brown hair.

Tomas couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Thankfully, his legs still worked and so didn't
his quick reflexes; he used both to dive for the shadows.

Backing up to the exit, he hissed, “Psst. Lou!”

The Flamingo's manager, engrossed by what was happening up on stage, didn't look back. “Huh?”

“Do not tell Seraphina Norris I was here.”

“Okay,” the manager agreed, but distractedly.

“You listening, ese?”

“I'm all ears.”

“Then hear this: If that woman unwraps a single inch of that shimmering stuff she's got on, I won't be held
responsible for my actions.”

That got Lou's attention. “We've been business associates for five years now, Tomas, and I've seen
some gorgeous ladies walk in and out of your life without you blinking so much as an eye. This is the first
time you've ever let a woman get to you.”

The manager played with his gold cufflinks while he deliberated the change in his partner and friend.
“Okay,” Lou decided. “I'm not pretending that I like your interference, but you must have your reasons.

What do you want me to say to her? She's already up on stage.”

“I don't care what you say. Tell her anything. Make it up,” Tomas whispered as he tiptoed out the door,
all the time thinking: Fuck, she's beautiful. And, No way is she ever wearing pink feathers in front of a
drooling male audience.

* * * *

The next day, wanting to survey his new property, Tomas parked his truck at the bottom of Monroe hill
and made his way up and down and through the overgrown paths on foot.

How could he blame Seraphina for wanting to hang onto the house?

He couldn't. The hilltop location was an ideal spot for a school. He could just imagine the musical notes
of student musicians echoing through the trees. And as sound carries on water, everyone up and down
the riverfront would get serenaded on hot summer nights. It was kind of a nice thought.

While he was thinking that nice thought, somehow Tomas found himself back once again at the bottom
of the mansion's rickety stairs. Unable to help himself, he climbed the steps and knocked at the rusted
screen door.

One rap, then two. The third time his knuckles came down, instead of the lady grilling him with a, ‘Who
the hell is it?’ as she should've done, Seraphina Norris called softly, “Come in!”

This really pissed him off but good.

“Why isn't that back door locked?” he asked, entering the kitchen and finding the music teacher on all
fours, a soapy brush in her hands.

Seraphina continued her floor scrubbing. “Because it's the middle of the day,” was her explanation,
which was no explanation at all.

“It might be safe in the middle of the day where you come from, but this here is the Southside, and it's
not safe here any time of day. You keep your doors locked at all times, and don't let anyone inside unless
you know who it is.”

“I assumed it was you,” she said, sliding back onto the back of her legs. “A day doesn't go by without
one of your friendly visits.” Raising an arm, she pushed a strand of golden brown hair back from her
forehead.

Tomas had never seen a sexier sight than Seraphina washing her floor. Or a sight more infuriating. Why
was she even bothering? The kitchen floor needed to be ripped up. The whole house needed to be
gutted. What the hell was she doing washing the damn floor on her hands and knees?

His balls tightened. “Get up,” he growled.

Her green eyes went huge. “Pardon?”

She had to get up! In that position, there was only one thing on his mind, and it had nothing to do with
clean floors and plenty to do with the way his dick was prodding his zipper.

“Get up,” he ordered again.

He followed the bellowed command with a strident step toward her. And still she stayed right where she
was. Did the woman have no freakin’ sense?

He reached for her.

“I don't want you scrubbing a floor or your hands and knees ever again. Got that?” he asked and
yanked her to her feet.

“When a floor is dirty, one washes the dirt away,” she said evenly.

Now, she decided to get logical? She was living in an abandoned building, where was the logic there?

He scowled at her and at her logic: no woman should ever wash a floor on her hands and knees, and
never anywhere near a man's erection. Yeah, she was nice, but she'd been married! Hadn't she seen the
hard bulge in his jeans? Couldn't she read the signs? The woman was making him fucking berserk!

He said through clenched teeth, “Use a damn mop. You do own a damn mop, don't you?”

“Of course, I own a...a darn mop. It's right over there,” she said pointing to the utility closet.

“Get it.” He watched her lush hips sway their way there; dropped his eyes when she made her way
back.

“I'll finish the floor,” he said, taking the mop from her hand, still carefully keeping his sights averted.

Her nipples. Man, her nipples! They were jutting through the worn cotton of her dress. A woman with a
sensual body like that had no business looking all-innocent. He knew she'd been a missionary, he knew
she was nice, but five years of marriage had to have taught her something about a man's desire, about the
way a man physically responds when he's aroused.

Seraphina Norris had him baffled. Her body was saying CFM-come fuck me—but her lips were saying,
“Thank you for the help,” when that isn't what they should've been saying at all. Maybe she wasn't doing
it on purpose. Maybe she was just naturally provocative...

He looked up, just to see if were mistaken, just to make sure he was reading her right.

Big mistake. Her two chapped hands had gone to the small of her back and she was stretching like a
cat, her spine arched, her tits clearly outlined under the worn material of her dress.

“Don't mention it,” he rasped, breaking out in a sweat.

“I have something else to thank you for too.”

What? For giving him a terminal case of blue ball-itis?

He stepped back, getting his dick the hell away from her until he could figure her out.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, voice tight. “What's that?”

No tightness in her voice. She said, all bubbly and happy, “You're looking at the newest employee at
The Pink Flamingo!”

“Lou hired you on as the new stripper?” he asked, knowing damn well that Lou hadn't. “Can't wait to
see you take it all off, baby,” he half teased, half spoke the truth-if the strip tease was private, for his eyes
only, he'd be there in the audience, front row center.

“Sorry. I get to keep it all on; I was hired as the new singing waitress. Isn't it wonderful? And I didn't
even have to audition. I had my whole routine planned too. I was wearing my sari-the village women in
Calcutta sold a goat in order to purchase this wonderful length of silk for me as a farewell gift-and I was
about to unwrap it, slowly, as Rox advised me to do-”

“You didn't-” He paused, tried to think how to delicately phrase the question so as not to offend her
sensibilities. “I mean, you didn't actually get-”

“Naked?” she supplied.

“Yeah. That.”

“No, I didn't. Though I was so looking forward to wearing those pasties. And the feathered G-string.
Though, how one keeps that thing from riding up into one's-”

He held up a hand. “I get the picture.”

“So, I won't be doing the dirty shimmy-shake, after all. But I will be singing show tunes. Isn't that
exciting?”

“Yeah. Exciting,” he said.

Relief didn't even come close to how he was feeling. He owned an adult club-no apologies. It was a
sound investment, a way to get the most bang for his investment capital, which is why he'd bought the
run-down bar. But because he was in the business, he knew plenty of exotic dancers and he was here to
say that there was a lot of crap going on behind a stripper's too bright smile. He had a pretty good
understanding of how a woman felt inside when she took off her clothes for money. It wasn't something
he wanted for Seraphina Norris.

“The pay is great,” his tenant continued. “I'll only be working weekend nights, and I get to wear a
conservative white blouse and a black skirt.” Her smile was angelic. “I'll tell you a little secret: I really
didn't want to strip.”

“No fooling?”

“I'm quite serious; stripping just isn't me. It's not that I'm a prude, you understand, because I'm certainly
not a prude.”

Tomas took in Seraphina's prim dress. “Oh, I can see that.”

“It's just that, even with the feathers, it was a little more exposure than I'm used to.”

Showing her kneecaps was a little more exposure than Seraphina Norris was used to. The lady needed
a hard dose of reality. “Listen, about this school idea-”

“Yes, about the school. Tomas, have you ever wanted something so much that you found it difficult to
admit it to anyone, that you even dreaded saying the words aloud for fear that your dream would
disappear with the telling?”

Tomas knew all about that kind of wanting. He wanted the Riverfront Protect so much he could taste it,
so much that it was the first thing he thought about in the morning and the last thing he thought about at
night. He wanted that project like a junkie wants his next fix, and he'd do anything to make it happen.

“Yes,” he said. “I've wanted something that bad.”

But Seraphina didn't seem to hear his answer. She'd gone someplace else, someplace far away,
somewhere in her own mind where he couldn't reach her. He knew that for a fact because he'd been
there too. He'd been to that dark, unholy place where panic claws at your guts, where fear is a foe that
lives inside your own head. And because he knew, because he understood, he made himself a promise
right there and then that the school would work out for her. If she needed the mansion to feel secure, he'd
give her the mansion. Hell, he'd do whatever it took to make all the bad stuff that was bothering her go
away...

Tomas picked up Seraphina's hand, felt for her pulse, counted the beats, decided she needed a jump
start, a kick of fresh air, or she'd pass out on him.

“Let's go take a walk around the property. I'll finish the floor when we get back. Okay, Sera?”

“Sera,” his tenant repeated, coming back out of her melancholic trance. “Who's Sera?”

“You are, honey.”

“No one's ever called me by a nickname before. I've always been Seraphina. Never Sera. Pricilla
Monroe was called Prissy by her husband. Wasn't that sweet?”

“Real sweet,” he said, leading her toward the door.

They were almost at the rusted screen when he heard an odd, out-of-place noise coming from outside.

Jaw arched, eyes narrowed, Tomas searched the woods at the back of the house.

There was movement in the trees. Someone was out there, someone who shouldn't oughta be there, and
that bastard someone was watching the house. And because his company truck was parked at the
bottom of the hill, instead of in the mansion's rutted driveway, that piece of shit someone figured the
music teacher was alone.

Tomas's attention whipped back to Sera.

She had stopped before the damned glass window. Oblivious to the danger she was in, unaware that she
made the perfect target reflected as she was in the clean, sunlit glass, she smiled. At him.

“Isn't this window beautiful, Tomas? Just goes to show what a little elbow grease will do. “

She had no sooner finished speaking the words when a sharp shwish split the air, and the glass window
came smashing down.

CHAPTER NINE

When the dust cloud cleared and the porch stopped shaking, Seraphina determined, that yes, she was
still alive.

But only because of Tomas Ruiz's quick action.

She still wasn't quite sure what had happened. She remembered, in a dull and distant sort of way, that
her shiny glass window had caught her attention. She had stopped to admire it. Commented to Tomas
about its beauty. And then that same window had shattered, the glass blown inward, the sharp shrapnel
ricocheting in every possible direction.

If Tomas hadn't been there, if she had been alone in the house, if he hadn't used his much larger body to
shield her from the breaking glass and flying debris, she might very well be seriously injured now.

Tomas was still shielding her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his breath warming the top of her ear.

What a straightforward question! And by all rights, she should have been able to give him a
straightforward, yes or no, answer.

Only she couldn't. Because everything that had happened to her this past year, everything that had tested
her strength of character in ways she never thought her character would be tested, was now catching up
with her. She stood mute within the shelter of Tomas's arms.

Was she all right?

She really had no idea.

It all happened so fast. Ten seconds? Twenty? How long does it take a dream to shatter?

It had taken less than a minute for her floor-to-ceiling window to implode, less than sixty seconds for a
burst of jagged glass fragments to cover the porch to within mere inches of where they stood. The
breaking glass had been deafening as her beautiful window crashed to the floor, the sound of its impact
blocking out her own high-pitched cries.

Not so her dream. That had shattered silently.

“I've got you,” Tomas Ruiz had said, swooping her up in his arms and literally carrying her across the
floor, away from danger, as her world fell apart for the second time in a year.

And what did she do?

What a madwoman usually does. Naturally, she'd started to laugh. Unreservedly. Whole-heartedly.
Inappropriately.

After the laughter, came the tears. Ugly, self-pitying tears, streaming hotly from her eyes and rolling
down her cheeks, burning her skin, the tears she couldn't cry before.

She sobbed. “My beautiful window!”

“Can be replaced,” Tomas’ voice rumbled into her ear, while his strong arms tightened around her. “It
was only glass.”

Only glass?

What did he know? That window had meant more to her than ‘only glass'!

She could say nothing to him in reply. She could only shake and shudder, shattering, not noisily like the
window, but silently like her dreams. While a heart, still whole and strong, hammered hard against the
side of her face; while a warm breath, smelling faintly of some hot and pleasant spice, dampened her
cheek, almost like a lover's stroke. He held her almost like a lover too...

She knew-at least, anecdotally she knew-that some men become rapidly aroused after a life-threatening
situation. It was the element of danger, she supposed. And the need to reaffirm the continuation of the
species, or some such thing, that caused their loins to quicken.

Tomas Ruiz proved this out.

To save her, he had literally placed himself as a barrier between her and a shattering wall of glass. There
was now a hard bulge pressing against her bottom testifying to both the element of danger, and his virile
response to it.

The element of danger could arouse women too. Women could throw their arms up in the air, their
morals out a shattered window, and for the first time in their lives, give into their secret natures.

Her generous bottom accepted his hard masculinity.

No! That wasn't right. Nothing as tepid as accepted. She enthusiastically welcomed his hard masculinity,
the thickness of which was rapidly imprinting itself into the deep gorge between her buttocks. She pushed
back against it.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, one hand now placed intimately on her hip, a thumb moving up and
down and over the fullest portion of her round bottom, cupping a cheek.

In answer, a soft sound of pleasure vibrated deep in her throat.

She wanted to purr.

Covered in plaster, filthy with it, a fine dust that coated her hair, her loose cotton dress, infiltrating her
very skin pores, and yet she wanted to purr.

She clenched her teeth against it, even as she parted her legs for him.

Wide. Wider still.

Her white cotton panties were of the Mother Hubbard variety: high waistband, low leg elastics,
hopelessly modest, hideously ugly.

As was her bra. Also white cotton, also utilitarian, the rigid style engineered for the matronly figure. For
the first time in her life, she wished she had give into temptation and indulged her Victoria Secret
appetites. After all, her breasts were small; she didn't need the extra support of sturdy cups or wide
shoulder straps.

Force of habit. Too afraid to let go, to free the physical side of her nature, even as a young woman she'd
never worn pretty or frivolous or feminine or sexy underwear. And, of course, after marriage, she'd had
to keep that part of herself hidden so as not to shock or repulse...or send her saintly husband running for
the relative safety of his own bedroom.

She needn't have those same concerns with Tomas Ruiz, not after the gossip she'd heard about him. The
stories said that her landlord never turned down the opportunity to sleep with a woman, any woman. And
so she knew that nothing she could do would shock or repulse or send him running.

It would take only a slight twist of his large hands to unfasten her bra, less time than that to slip her
panties down and off. Her breasts were achy; the nipples hardened to points. The void between her open
thighs was throbbing; the panel on her underpants was already damp, and growing more so. If Tomas
Ruiz touched her there, he would know how wanton she was, how physical was her nature. He would
understand then that she was not the angel he thought she was.

Would he touch her there? Did men routinely touch women there before, during, after lovemaking...any
time?

She wanted to know. No, she needed to know.

She was a mature woman, married for five years, widowed for one, and she still didn't know.

A window had just shattered, the glass sent flying in every direction. She could have been struck,
maimed, killed. Life was so short! She needed to know, right now, right this very minute, what it was like
to let go, to truly let go, to be the woman she really was inside.

Tomas Ruiz, she sensed, would touch a woman everywhere. She sensed that he would do whatever he
wanted to a woman, and that the woman would enjoy it.

She didn't expect romance, or impassioned kisses, or pretty words whispered in her ear. What she
wanted was sex. Hard, driving, pounding, wild, uninhibited sex. The kind of animalistic sex at which
Tomas Ruiz purportedly excelled. According to his reputation, he could give her what she needed and it
wouldn't mean anything.

Meaningless sex was exactly what she wanted.

“If you weren't here,” she began and stopped, only to begin again. “If you hadn't gotten me out of the
way-”

“But I was here. I did get you out of the way,” he said softly. “So don't go there. Don't go looking for
the ‘if's’ in life. If you do, they might find you someday.”

Light fingers were swept over her twisted tight hair.

To remove plaster?

Most probably. But the removal of plaster didn't explain why his thumb continued to move over the full
curve of her buttock.

His attention was more centered now. More sexual. His thick penis was pressing, pressing, into the
demarcation between her cheeks.

Unable to help herself, the purr she'd desperately tried to suppress finally managed to escape on a
breathy word: “Please.”

“It's okay,” he whispered.

Would he draw up her skirts in back? Would he undo his zipper and free that tremendous bulge? Would
he take her from behind, like an animal?

Yes! Now! Please now! She could hardly wait.

Where was the harm in finally giving into her true nature?

Her parents and husband were gone. As she was no longer a missionary, she need no longer hold herself
to exemplary standards of behavior. For once in her life she could do something with only herself in mind.

Was that so horribly selfish?

After all, the usage was mutual. Tomas Ruiz wanted her; his erection told her so. He could make her feel
something again. He could release the knot of tension that was a tight fist in her belly-

She'd do anything he asked if only to feel something again, even if what she felt were pain. Maybe
afterwards, she'd finally get some sleep. Restful, sex-satiated sleep.

As her breathing quickened with excitement, Tomas’ large hand, the one cupping her bottom, loosened.

A scream rose inside her that had nothing to do with the shattered window or with the destruction of her
dream. She blocked the scream with her folded knuckles. Only pride kept her from begging.

Why had he stopped?

Unless-

Had he only just then realized what he was doing?

He must have, for he was backing off from her. Not a lot. His hand was still protectively on her hip, but
that hard bulge had retracted.

“You're a nice woman,” he said, and by that pronouncement, denied her what he'd given more than half
the women in town. “It's the shock,” he soothed. “That's what this is about.”

No, it was not what this was about! Her need had been building inside her long before her window
shattered.

But he couldn't know that.

He must think she was hysterical! He must think the broken window had unhinged her.

Then again, he also thought she was a do-gooder society lady. He knew nothing about her!

Seraphina looked over her shoulder at him. “It was a rock, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see who threw it?”

“No. All I could make out was movement in the trees.”

“Do you think it was just some kid up to mischief?”

He took a deep breath. “I don't know. Could've been.”

“But you don't think so, do you?”

“I think whoever threw the rock knew that flying glass at close range can do some serious damage.”

“I see,” she said, feeling a chill run through her.

Someone wanted her out of the Southside. Someone wanted her out of this mansion so badly they had
picked up a rock and hurled it through the window, intending to hurt her in the process. She had never
before known that kind of hatred. Who would so strongly oppose her presence, and why?

The slippery nylon thread of her pride wasn't enough to hold onto anymore. She was about to let go.
She was about to fall. And there was no safety net. No one to catch her.

She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't naïve. Tomas Ruiz wanted her out of the mansion. He could have paid
someone to scare her, to hasten her departure by throwing a rock through the window she'd just cleaned.
She was standing in the way of all those luxury houses he wanted to build. Time was money. Every day
she spent in the house was a day he lost a small fortune.

She had to know how far he would go to get her to leave.

“What I can't understand, Tomas, is why you aren't saying I told you so about the mansion? Why aren't
you rubbing my nose in the fact that you were right, and I was wrong, and that the Southside is
dangerous? Why aren't you saying those things, hunh, Tomas? Why aren't you saying that I deserve
everything I get for ever thinking I could start a music school here?”

“Deserve!” he scoffed. “What does deserve have to do with anything that happens in life? Listen, if I
heard, ‘I told you so', as many times as I deserved to hear it, most days, I'd hear nothing else.”

He waved a big hand. “Look around you! The window broke, but the house is still standing.”

“W-what are you saying?”

He raked his waving hand through his dusty hair. “I'm saying...I don't know what the hell I'm saying.
Except that, yeah the porch shook a hell of a lot, but the main house didn't so much as twitch when the
window caved, and that says to me that structurally, the mansion is sound. This old house is stronger than

I gave it credit for.”

The dark eyes holding hers were openly admiring. “You're a lot stronger than I gave you credit for too.”

“Oh, you're very much mistaken about that. I'm not strong at all.”

Pulling away from the protection of his arms, she ran back inside the house before she begged Tomas
Ruiz to make love to her.

He didn't attempt to follow her.

Why would he?

Tomas Ruiz didn't want her, not even after she'd made it easy for him. He'd slept with most of the
women in town but he didn't want to sleep with her. And why should that surprise her?

Her own husband hadn't wanted to sleep with her.

CHAPTER TEN

Jet black ponytail walloping the back of his muscled neck with the force of his stride, Tomas stalked the
back trails of River Park, taking the paths where no one in his right mind ever ventured. In his present
frame of mind, he knew he was as dangerous as any gang member who hung there, as desperate as any
druggie waiting on his connection.

And violent?

Hell, yeah, he was feeling violent. Damned violent. He was raised on these mean streets, and no punk,
no matter how bad they supposedly were, was messing with him. Let them try. Bring ‘em all on. He was
in a skull-busting mood.

Fists closed on the studded pockets of his black jeans, Tomas growled into a thick cover of trees,
“Enrico Cortez! Show yourself!”

The young gang leader strolled out of the bushes eventually, and faced his mentor and friend. “What's
up, man? Why you trippin’ ?” He stopped, looked him over. “Fuck, man! What happened to you? You
look you've been in some kind of train wreck. You got blood and grit all over you.”

“The woman staying over at the Monroe mansion, Mrs.Norris, just had a rock fired through her
window. Know anything about it?”

Enrico's expression showed his confusion. “I told you, Tomas, the R.P's were gonna leave the lady
alone. And we are.”

“ ‘Rico, if you're fucking with me, so help me, ese, there ain't enough desperados in your posse to watch
your back.”

“Hey, amigo, haven't I always been straight with you?”

Tomas narrowed his eyes. “You patrolling the grounds at night over there, like I asked?”

“Yeah, man! Whatd'ya think? Don't freak on me. You asked for a favor, and the RP's are comin’
through for you. So far, it's quiet at the Monroe place.”

“What about cross-town gangs?”

“There's no street rap anywhere about hassling her. As far as I've heard, the situation is firme with her
staying there.”

Tomas’ mouth twisted. “Ain't cool for no one while the dope show's still in town.”

“True dat! The dealers were some pissed when that gringa lady moved in. She stopped their action
cold-”

Tomas rubbed the tight cords in his neck. “Fuck!”

Today's rock throwing incident might only be the start of things to come. Who knew how far the dealers
would go to scare Seraphina Norris out of the house? She could've been hurt today. Her pretty face
could've been busted up, cut, scarred...

Tomas cringed. He'd seen the results of what dealers did to anyone who stood in the way of them
making their dirty money, and it was ugly. For the teacher's sake, he was scared shitless. He was the one
moving in on the dealers’ action. He was the one putting up houses in their territory. Not Seraphina
Norris.

It was always the weak ones that got picked on, always the ones that couldn't defend themselves, who
got intimidated. And it didn't matter squat that the music teacher was a woman; women made the easiest
targets. She'd pay the postage on the message they were sending to him.

“Okay,” he said, getting it together; on the Southside, fear was not something a man ever showed. “I'm
glad to hear the gangs are cool with the music teacher. That's the good news. The bad news is, the
dealers are obviously not cool with her in that house.”

“What do you want the RP's to do?”

“Keep your noses clean, first of all, and keep up the good work. Run the grounds at the Monroe
mansion at night, like usual. Maybe I can find an excuse to stay close to the music teacher...”

“Excuse? Turn on the Latino charisma, man, and she'll ask you to move your boots under her bed.”

“It's not like that, Enrico.”

“So, maybe you ain't fucking her yet-you can still hang with her, can still get it goin’ .”

“I've got no designs on the pretty teacher. But until I can shake her loose from that house, she's my
responsibility.”

Tomas flashed the young man a smile, and changed the subject. “How's your old man liking his new job
over at the site?”

“He likes it fine. My mama, though, now she thinks you walk on water.”

Tomas laughed. “And I could too, if I did the walking on the river; it's that polluted.” Refusing to give
into discouragement, he said, “That will all change soon enough.” He paused, then, “How'd you like to
get with your father? Have a real job. Make some real money.”

“Someday, maybe. Right now, I wanna stay tight with the boys. They depend on me to keep them
together. And outta trouble.”

“You're doing a fine job on that score. The R.P's haven't had a single gang related bust in six months.”

Enrico blushed. “What can I say? I do what I can.”

Tomas grabbed the R.P.'s leader around the shoulders in a blood hug, then clapped his back. “You're a
good man, Enrico.”

“ Te veo mas tarde, guey.”

“Ay Te Watcho. See you at the center. Si?”

Night was falling fast, and at ‘Rico's nod, Tomas slipped back into the comforting twilit shadows.

After just telling ‘Rico he had no intention of getting’ it goin’ with the pretty gringa teacher, he knew he
couldn't stay away. It wasn't only a question of her safety, or the fact that her back porch was littered
with glass; it was the way she'd looked at him that was drawing him back to her. There'd been such need
in her eyes. Earlier, her mixed signals had puzzled him, but there was nothing mixed about her raw and
naked look after that window had shattered. How could he refuse that look?

He couldn't refuse, not and still call himself a man. It didn't matter shit that he was a substitute, a fill-in for
a dead man; the lady was hurtin’ and he had to be there for her.

Tomas didn't bother to knock on the rusted screen door.

Stepping over the shards of glass that littered the porch, he entered the kitchen. When he didn't find her
there, he headed for the back of the dark house, searching each room he passed for Sera.

Even without lights, he could tell the condition of those rooms he passed was poor to dangerous. Loose
wires hung out of walls in rooms where there were still walls standing. There were holes the size of
craters in the floors. Forget about the ceilings. In most rooms, he could see straight up through the joists
to the attic above.

It looked like the kitchen was the only room that still had power. The house had never been updated,
which meant somewhere down in the dirt cellar was a fuse box. If he could find a fuse that fit, he could
rig it up so she'd at least have electricity in some of the other rooms too. He was surprised she even had
running water. Cold water, to be sure. No way, ese, did the old hot water boiler still work. What had he
gotten himself into here?

He should have himself committed for ever thinking he could turn this old hulk of a house around-

Tomas sighed. The fuses would get fixed first, and that was as in tomorrow. Sera wasn't staying in a
dark house another night. Just eight o'clock, and except for a small flickering light coming from the end of
the hall, it was already pitch black in the house.

Following the light, Tomas came to an open door.

The bathroom. Sera, wearing only a white bra and white panties, stood in front of the sink; the flickering
light he'd followed was a candle perched on the closed toilet seat.

Pretty Sera by candlelight. There wasn't nothing more romantic than that.

Slouched against the doorjamb, his eyelids gone heavy, Tomas watched her

move a wrung-out washcloth down the long column of her pale throat. She shivered a little, telling him,
that as he had suspected, the heater was busted and the water in the sink was cold.

She'd already shampooed. To get her wet hair out of the way while she bathed, she'd piled the thick
golden-brown mass atop her head and pinned it there with sticks that were decorated. Geisha sticks, he
guessed. A few tendrils had escaped, though, and the ends tickled her fine ass. Lucky hair.

Tomas liked that Sera's hair had a mind of its own, liked that it was wild and unruly, liked the weighty
look of it, the length of it, liked the old-fashioned quality of hair that must never have been cut. Not many
women these days had long, natural-looking hair, he mused. He wanted to undo those exotic painted
sticks and set her hair free, watch it ripple down the naked length of her pale back-

He wouldn't be releasing her hair. He wouldn't be touching her at all. Filthy as he was, covered in
plaster, reeking of sweat, his skin bloodied, his dirty hands weren't going anywhere near her.

But that didn't mean he couldn't look.

Her arms were slender and elegantly graceful; her legs were long, the thighs sleek; her tits, he already
knew, were dainty-small.

Trailing his sights down Sera's spine to the flare of her hips, Tomas checked out the full-cheeked
sexiness of her ass.

In the white cotton briefs, the demarcation between her buttocks was a shadowed gorge, a deep and
narrow passage a man would want to explore.

Sera had just lost her husband, a man she had loved, and she was hurtin'. That's why she came on to him
the way that she did after the window had shattered. For her own safety, he had to make sure, that in her
need, she didn't go around issuing that same invitation to other guys. Picking up strange men was damn
dangerous. He wasn't the only bad-ass living on the Southside; they're were many more just like him,
some of them worse.

Tomas knew he could take care of Sera sexually. He wanted to take care of her sexually. He knew he
could satisfy her. At least with him, she'd be safe. So, yeah, he could take some of her hurtin’ away, but
she had to know what she was getting into before they started anything. He had to make her understand
what kind of man he was.

“Unhook the bra so I can see your tits,” he said, purposefully crude. Because, hey, crude was what he
was. Better she learn that up front.

“Tomas!” she gasped, slanting a startled look over at him up.

He read the fear in her green eyes.

What woman wouldn't be fearful?

It was obvious he'd been spying on her, indulging in a little voyeurism at her expense. The question
was...would she indulge him some more? Or was she just too nice for that sort of thing?

“Unless-did I read you all wrong, Sera? Unless, that wasn't an invitation you were issuing me on the
porch an hour or so ago? You gotta let me know, because Sera, honey, regardless of what you might
have heard, I don't do rape. If that's your nice woman's sex fantasy, you'll have to find yourself another
hombre to act it out. If this ain't consensual, it stops here.”

“It's consensual, Tomas,” she said softly. “I'm merely surprised. I-I didn't think you'd bother with me. I-I
didn't think I was your usual type of woman.”

“Hell, no, you're not my usual type of woman!”

Her grammar was too good, for one thing. No woman he'd ever been with talked like her, looked like
her, acted like her.

“Let's not talk, Sera,” he said, not liking the reminder of the differences between them. “We get in
trouble when we try to make the other understand where we're coming from. So, I'm just gonna tell you
what I want you to do, and Sera, honey, I expect you to do it, no questions asked, no arguments.”

All big-eyed and solemn, she nodded. Her arms went behind her back, her fingers undoing the bra
fastener.

She'd had one bitch of a day. He could make it better for her, wipe all the bad stuff away. He could do
it, as long as they didn't talk, explain their motives, make some sense out of something that made no
sense at all. He already knew they didn't belong together, that there was no way to make this right.
Words weren't gonna change that. She was too good for him. End of story.

Taking a step toward the candle, Tomas blew out the flame. The room was cast into total darkness.

He wouldn't be touching Sera tonight. He wouldn't be seeing her either. Those were rights that didn't
belong to him.

In his imagination, though, that was different. In his mind's eye, he saw her wiggle her shoulders. Pictured
those ugly white straps falling down her slender arms. Envisioned her breasts. Man, her nipples! He knew
they'd be a fucking work of art.

Tomas understood the true meaning of torture when he heard the bra's metal clasp hit the floor.

“Christ,” he whispered, “you're beautiful.”

“Beautiful? You can't see me,” she argued.

Always so logical! Always so argumentative. Which is why he'd ordered her to silence, an order she'd
naturally ignored.

“You are beautiful, Sera. Very beautiful. Your breasts are round and high, the color of cream. And the
tips-” He swallowed. “What shade are your nipples, beautiful Sera? Tell me.”

He listened, smiling when her heard the lift and fall of her shrug. “Why, I suppose they're pink. And
there's no reason to charm me. I've already agreed to this. I agree to everything.”

Charm her? He was only speaking the truth. Sera was beautiful! Her husband had to have told her so-

Filing his confusion away, Tomas said, “So—your nipples are pink. Are they rose pink or carnation
pink? You're good with words, describe them to me.”

“Tomas!” she cried.

He ignored her prissiness. “They're a rose at dusk, aren't they? Lovely and sweet.”

He wished he could see them, touch them, kiss them...suckle them. But this wasn't about his wishes; this
was about her need.

“Now don't go all shy and cover ‘em up,” he chuckled, anticipating her move.

In the small room, the heavy air stirred. Sera was shaking her head in exasperation, a habit of hers.

“How did you know I was about to do that?” she asked.

Her tone contained irritation. He liked the way Sera looked when she was pissed. He liked that flash of
anger that came into her eyes, every once in a while. Made her seem human, more approachable. It was
tough having a hard-on for an angel.

“A man knows,” he said simply. “Now, take down your hair.”

The perfumed scent filled the air as soon as she did.

“Pick up the washcloth again,” he said, imagining the way her dainty tits shifted as she reached for the
sink.

He'd had blue balls since they met. He'd been aching since the window broke, in pain since her soft ass
had cradled his cock. He was getting to the desperate point. How much more could he take?

Agony. He was in fucking agony.

This hurt. Not touching her hurt. He wanted to fill his hands with her, wanted to get inside her. But he
couldn't. He just couldn't. Sera wasn't any ordinary good-times woman and this wasn't about them having
an ordinary good-times fuck. This was about showing her that he was not the kind of man she ever
should have encouraged. This was about teaching her a hard lesson about a hard man. This was about
keeping her safe from men just like him.

“Do what you were doing before I interrupted,” he told her, the command coming out a hoarse croak,
his vocal cords mimicking the tightness in his balls.

She shook her head again, he could tell. He could also tell that she wanted this, that she wanted to do
this, that she was excited by his demand.

The cloth made a splash in the water-filled sink.

“Do they ache?” he asked, leaning his skull back against the doorjamb, imagining that cloth sliding over
the firm slope of a breast.

“Do what ache?”

How could she be so fucking innocent?

“Your nipples!” he rasped. “Do they hurt?”

“Yes,” she answered, uncompromising in her honesty.

Good! He was hurting; he wanted her to hurt too.

“Do it again, only rub harder,” he said, his voice just as uncompromising.

Sera had been married to a good man, a missionary man; she didn't know nothin’ about a hard man's
kind of fucking. For her own good, she was about to get a taste.

“I said harder, Sera. Rub the cloth back and forth over the points until they burn.”

When a surprised “Oh” crossed the space that separated them, his throat arched and worked.

“Again,” he ordered. “Do it again. Keep doing it ‘til I tell you to stop.”

“Ohdear-ohdear,” he heard her gasp.

“Drop the wash cloth and pinch your nipples,” he said thickly.

The cloth splashed as the cloth fell back into the water-filled sink. Sera breathed in little pants as she did
what he told her to do.

His knees went weak. “Harder! Use your nails.”

When she hit the wall, when she was moaning, too far gone in her need to refuse him, he said, “Drop
your panties.”

The underwear made a fluttery sound as it fell to the tile floor.

His voice was terse, low...tortured. “Get your knee up on the tub, facing me.”

The bathtub was an antique: cast iron, claw-foot. Once her knee was propped up on the high side, her
pussy would be wide open. Dark room or not, a nice woman like Sera would still feel exposed.

A small shuffling sound, as a shapely leg was raised.

His hands fisted at his sides. A sharp knife came out of nowhere and twisted in his gut.

So this was what being noble felt like. He had to say he didn't much care for it. “You know what I

want.”

“I-I'm sorry. I d-d-don't know,” she stammered.

He frowned. Did she take him for a fool?

“Please tell me what you want me to do,” she pleaded.

“I want you to-”

Shit! He'd never been in this kind of situation before. Never had to explain, never had to say anything.
Always before, the women understood.

Sera didn't understand.

He searched for the right words, then started all over again. “I want you to pleasure yourself. Take it
nice and slow. One finger to start, two to finish up.”

“Inside my vagina?” she asked.

Tomas felt himself go hot. “Yeah. That.”

He had her figured for using the correct terminology. Still, he had to say, he was shocked by the
V-word. Why was it that pussy sounded a lot more user friendly?

When he could hear the wet sounds her honey made as her fingers moved in and out, his cock jumped.

“Work your clit,” he demanded.

“Mmm,” she murmured after a while.

A while that was too long by his estimation, telling him Sera didn't go solo any too often.

Her breath caught, was released, caught again; Sera was about two strokes away from the final curtain,
but he sensed she was holding back, resisting the standing ‘O'.

He liked pussy. He liked watching a woman's face when she came. Right as it was happening, there was
this incredible radiance that came over a woman's features. Sometimes, when body met mind, it was
almost metaphysical.

Metaphysical. That was a word he had to look up in Webster's. He did that a lot when he was reading.
He could tell by listening to her that Sera read a lot too.

Sera was so beautiful. She'd be even more beautiful when she came. It was a real sacrifice not seeing
her face when it happened.

But this was for her, not for him, he reminded himself, as he said those fateful words, “Come, Sera.”

“I...I...don't... think I can.”

Sometimes, orgasm was metaphysical; other times, it all came down to mechanics.

Some women could get off on clit stimulation alone; others needed that little extra something, like help
from a battery-operated devise. Looked to him like Sera fell into the latter category. Where was a
vibrator when a guy needed one?

Tomas left his position by the door, walked to the closed toilet lid and grabbed the white candle from its
holder, tested the wax.

Cool to the touch. It looked like it had started out at a foot, but it had burned down some. It was nice
and firm, though. Thick too.

Not as thick as his cock, but hey, life wasn't perfect. Since it couldn't be him, the candle would have to
do.

“Here,” he said, matter-of-factly.

He held the candle out to her, making sure their fingers didn't touch in transit.

“Use it like a dildo. And Sera, don't hold back. I better damn well know when it happens.”

She cried out in the darkness, a pained kind of cry.

He tensed. “What's wrong?”

“N-nothing. “I just never-uh-used a candle in quite this way before.”

Chuckling to himself, he relaxed again.

Sera's pussy sounded like warm honey as the candle slid up inside. She was so wet-

“Oh, Tomas,” she gasped, as she got down to it. “Oh, Tomas-Oh, Tomas,” she screamed.

He pressed both thumbs into his eye sockets. “That's right, baby. Let it roll over you, let it sweep you
away. It's what you need-”

He could hear her spasm, could feel her writhe and shake and finally go taut. Sweat drained down his
face, between his shoulder blades. “I'm here, baby. I'm here. Don't fight it.”

When she convulsed, he lost it too, shattering right along with her. He hadn't done that since he was
sixteen.

Humiliated by his loss of control, disturbed by what it meant, feeling like he'd been sucker punched, he
stared wildly into the darkness, seeking a hint of her, a sign of her, any fucking indication of her, in the
pitch-black room.

He couldn't. All was quiet on her side of the room.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She spoke low; second thoughts had crept into her voice. “Yes.”

Those second thoughts were a good thing; maybe they'd protect her from men like him.

“Go to bed,” he told her. “I'll be on the porch, cleaning up the glass.”

After he'd unzipped and cleaned his lack of control up at the sink. Reality could be a bitch.

He hadn't gotten any since meeting Sera. Hadn't even thought about getting any.

There were women he went to for sex. They weren't strictly ‘hos but they did accept help when the rent
came due. With these women, he had what might be called an amicable understanding. That these
women had this same understanding with several other suitors was just the way things went. As long as
he didn't have to wait in a long line in the hall outside their apartments, he didn't mind sharing it and he
didn't paying for it. Better to leave his cash on the nightstand next to the last guy's rental contribution than
pretend the fucking meant something to either party.

Since Sera, he hadn't wanted to visit these women. He hadn't taken care of his manly needs in the
shower either, like he shoulda oughta have done.

So here he was, red of face and sticky of boxers, nobly trying to do the right thing by a lady who was far
too good for him.

“My nightgown is hanging on a hook on the door,” Sera said, her steps padding across the floor to
where he stood, red of face and sticky of boxers, at the threshold.

The air stirred as her arm was raised. Her bare breast had to be within an inch of his biceps. She was so
close that if he moved her nipple would stroke his hot skin.

He stood statue-still as she unhooked the nightgown from the door.

And then she was moving past him out the door and down the hall to her bedroom, leaving him trembling
and alone against the damn doorjamb, breathing in the lingering scent of unrequited sex.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Any news yet on the Riverfront Project?” Tomas asked Myra the next day.

“Nothing official.” His administrative assistant looked up from her newspaper.

Terror struck his heart. When Myra spared him a glance, it was not a good sign. “What did you hear
unofficially?”

“You don't stand a chance,” she said quietly-too quietly.

He took a deep, steadying breath. “I see. That's kinda what I thought.”

His dream was being flushed down the drain. Everything he'd worked so hard for was slipping away
from him, not because he couldn't do the job, but because he didn't wear a suit, didn't have the right
party manners.

“If you touted your own horn about what you've been doin’ to improve conditions on the Southside,

stuffed shirts like Connor might be swayed to your side. Are you willin’ to let me leak your philanthropic
activities to the press?”

“What I do, I do anonymously.”

“You said you'd do anything to get this project. Seraphina Norris is your anything. You need to improve
your image, Tommie. She'd do that for you. I realize this is a drastic measure, but you've got no choice.
You need some of the feel-good glitter the Norris woman is generating. Connor is a straight-laced kind
of guy. Been married fifty years to the same woman and he highly recommends the institution.”

“Good for him. Glad to hear it-”

“And bad for you. He's made it known to various City Council members that he doesn't approve of your
‘swinging life style'. Connor doesn't think you project the right image for this redevelopment project. He
wants a married guy with roots and a stake in the community.”

“I've got all that, except for the marriage license. And unless that comes with a guaranteed life-time
warranty, I ain't interested.”

“Better get interested, Tommie. Marriage means stability. Responsibility. Family values...the waterfront
contract. People are dependin’ on you for the jobs this project will generate.”

“Tell me you're not suggesting I get married to get this contract?”

“People get married for all kinds of weird reasons-”

“Not me. I'm not the marrying kind.”

“You know something?” she asked in the middle of her inquisition, and scrutinizing him closely. “You
seem kinda tense. You need to unwind. Take a nice, long, soak in a hot tub-”

“In case you never noticed, Myra, this trailer doesn't come with a tub.”

“See that? That's exactly what I'm talking about! You need a tub. People with roots have bathtubs!”

Myra glanced at him over the tops of her bifocals. “And married men have the deepest roots. As soon
as romance enters men's lives on a permanent basis, they get all content and start investing in the future.”

“Haven't you heard, Myra? Romance goes right out the door as soon as marriage enters the picture.”

“I'll have you know that my marriage is still romantic. Why, when the hubby and I are snuggling in bed...”

Tomas covered his ears. “Stop right there. What you and the hubby do in bed is a topic I have no
intention of ever discussing with you.”

“Shush now! It's not what you think. I was only gonna say that my hubby still lets me rub my cold feet
next to his warm ones in bed,” she said with a soft smile that belied her eligibility for senior discounts.
“And he still makes me a cup of tea while we're relaxin’ in front of the tube so I don't have to get up. And
in the winter, he warms up my car for me every morning before I leave for work. If that's not romantic, I
don't know what is!”

“I do,” he grumbled. “And we're not talking about that either.”

An AARP magazine came flying at him. From years of fine-honed practice, he ducked in time.

He had the trailer door all the way open, and he was hot-footing his way through when Myra yelled after
him: “Connor wants you to call him. ASAP. When you do, I strongly suggest you start droppin’ Mrs.
Norris's name into the conversation. Get my drift?”

“I'm buried under it, Myra. Subtle you're not.”

The woman did not give up! Tomas thought, closing the trailer door tight behind him so the grit and noise
of the site wouldn't disturb his sweetheart's mid-morning snooze.

* * * *

The last person Seraphina had expected to see at the doorstep that day was Tomas Ruiz.

But there he was in all his gorgeous splendor on the top stair, smiling and saying, “Hi,” as if nothing had
happened between them the night before, as if she hadn't ‘pleasured herself’ to his tersely worded
commands.

Feeling a little shy after being naked with him the night before, but thrilled all the same that he had
stopped by for a visit, all she could think of to say in reply was a boring “Hello.”

He gave her a sexy smile, as if they shared some naughty secret, which they did, in a way. And no longer
feeling quite as bashful, she relaxed.

The feeling lasted all of twenty seconds.

After he'd softened her up with the smile, he got immediately down to business. “How do you feel about
my working on the windows?”

Her guards went right back up. A woman can only be rejected so many times in her life before she
develops a self-protective suit of armor. Hers was about five years thick, and came with incredibly long,
porcupine-like spikes.

How silly! She had thought this was a social call, that a genuine desire to see her had prompted Tomas
Ruiz's visit! She should have realized that with men like Tomas Ruiz, business always comes first. He was
here to lower the boom.

She cleared the hurt from her voice. “You want to work on the windows now?”

At his nod, gloom descended. Once all the windows on the porch were boarded up, darkness would
hang like a pall over the house even during the day.

The mansion was his property; she couldn't prevent him from making necessary repairs. The gaping
holes in her walls needed to be fixed, but she'd miss the sunlight.

Feeling sorry for herself, she held open the screen door for him to enter.

“It doesn't have to be done today. Why not wait?” she asked, hoping to delay the inevitable loss of light

as long as possible.

“No time like the present,” he replied.

“But-but-you were here ‘till late last night, picking up the broken glass on the porch.” While she, for the
first time in months, slept soundly in her bed. That's what a little male attention did for a woman.

“You couldn't have gotten much rest,” she wheedled. “Aren't you exhausted?”

“I don't need much sleep.”

With a heavy thud, the toolbox was set on the floor.

She felt the weight of its finality in every depressed fiber of her being

Last night, without touching her, Tomas Ruiz had given her an orgasm. Her very first one. Having him in
the room while she touched herself was darkly sexual. Remorselessly thrilling. Shamelessly exciting.
Wickedly abandoned. Lonely too.

She wanted a man's hands on her body, all over her body. No parts off-limits. She wanted her hands to
do the same for him. She wanted mouths hungrily joined, loins frantically pumping and thrashing. She
wanted mindless mutuality. She wanted to make love, ferocious, politically incorrect love. Most of all, she
wanted them both to feel something.

Tomas had forced her to come apart, to break like her glass window, while he had remained whole,
aloof from the devastation. The knowledge that he had kept his control while she had lost hers was a
bitter pill to get down.

She wanted Tomas as a lover, but she wasn't a fool. He hadn't spared her a touch last night, proving he
didn't want her. The toolbox, heavy with nails to board up the rest of her windows, proved that he just
wanted her gone.

So, let him do what he came here to do! He could board up every single window in the house, all the
doors too, and that wouldn't change her mind. Her resolve to stay in the mansion was as strong as ever.
A lonely climax didn't alter her position. A rock thrown through her window didn't alter her position. No
charming smile would prompt her to leave earlier than what was her legal right.

Neither would subversive tactics. That's what last night was really all about. He was trying to get her to
trust him so that he could convince her to leave before her month was up.

Tomas looked around the porch, taking in every piece of plywood. “You can't live in a boarded up
building; it's not healthy.”

She knew it! He sounded so sympathetic. She knew it for the ploy it was.

Her chin quivered as she voiced last night's horrible suspicion. “Were you behind the rock throwing
incident, Tomas?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I'd never do something like that.”

She wasn't sure of what he was capable of doing. All she knew is that he'd remained coolly reserved the

night before, uninvolved, while she'd screamed his name at the top of her lungs. Could she believe
Tomas, a man who so easily manipulated women?

“I'm staying here, Tomas, until I'm legally forced to leave.”

“Sera, be reasonable! You need air circulation. Sunlight too.”

She needed the school more. “I will not leave-”

He sighed. “I'll install the new glass windows and screens, one room at a time. The original wood casings
are in good condition, so they stay.”

She did a double take. “Pardon?”

“You're already too pale, Sera. You need air and sunshine. By the end of the summer, I want you
looking as brown and healthy as me.” His smile was arrogant and sexy. “The new windows should be
delivered within the hour. “I've got a crew coming over to help with the installation, so they'll be up on the
porch today.”

She was stunned. Oh, not by the smile. She was getting used to his posturing. But unless she was very
much mistaken, it looked like she was staying in the Monroe mansion.

“You've decided not to rip down the house, haven't you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You think the mansion is salvageable.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

She wanted to throw herself at him, wanted to clutch him to her, wanted to hug him until he turned blue,
wanted to kiss him, with her tongue firmly planted in his throat until...until...they tumbled onto the floor
and started ripping at one another's clothes.

Naturally, she did none of those things. No throwing herself into his arms. No breast clutching. No
smothering hugging. No French kissing. Certainly, no garment ripping. Call it fear of rejection, call it good
old-fashioned commonsense. Something was up with Tomas Ruiz. Something was definitely going on. A
leopard doesn't change his spots over night, she thought suspiciously. Especially not spots as huge and
glaring at Tomas Ruiz's spots.

“I'm helping with the installation,” she countered, giving not a hint of her apprehension away.

“In a dress?” he asked, strapping on his tool belt. “You want to pass me a hammer or something, that's
fine with me, but pull on a pair of jeans first.”

“I don't own any.”

“You don't own jeans?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Never had a pair. I wasn't allowed to wear pants as a child. Only dresses.
My folks didn't think pants looked very lady-like.”

“I know your parents were missionaries and everything, but you couldn't have been in church all the
time.”

“No, I wasn't raised in a pew if that's what you mean. But my parents’ expectations were very high.
From an early age, I was encouraged to be of service in the community, while setting an example to
others by my behavior.”

“Ouch! Double holy whammy.”

“Ouch, indeed. My parents were wonderful people, if just a tad prehistoric.” She sighed. “I didn't have a
typical upbringing, I guess.”

“That makes both of us.”

“Were you forced to wear dresses too?” she asked sweetly.

“Ha. Ha.” He reached into his tool chest. “If you want the renovation work finished by September, you'll
need a crew here everyday, all summer. How many teachers have you hired so far?”

“One. Apart from Calia, no one else would work here.”

“Why's that?”

“Primarily because of the condition of the school.” And the area. But she needn't tell him that.

“How many teachers are you planning on hiring if and when the school gets remodeled?” he asked.

“Two each for woodwinds, brass, percussion, strings, voice and the various ensembles. Of course,
there's also Suzuki.”

“You're teaching Japanese cooking?” he asked, straight-faced.

“No, silly!” she said, going along with the tease. “Suzuki is musical instruction for children aged four and
up. It involves the whole family and is based on the belief that musical talent isn't inherited, but nurtured
by a child's environment. All children share a natural potential to learn, and properly trained teachers help
unfold it.”

“You know,” he said, deadpan, “I think cooking classes are a real good idea for the kids on the
Southside.”

“I do too, but that's not the purpose of a music school.”

And what was Tomas Ruiz's purpose? His ulterior motive?

Clearly, he was up to something. His change of heart about the school was just too sudden.

“To get started,” she said, caution dampening her enthusiasm, “I'll need at least eight sound-proof rooms
with a state of the art acoustical system in each.”

“That's a big job. The rooms will need to be gutted, then re-built to specification.”

“Is it doable?”

“Yeah, but-”

“That's all I need to hear,” she said, throwing caution to the winds. Whatever Tomas was up to, she'd
deal with it when the time came.

Suddenly, she was feeling quite cheerful. “I'll need a written estimate for the work to give to the bank
when I start shopping for a mortgage.”

“Sera, I never said I was selling you the mansion-”

“I know. You made no promises, but I like being prepared. And, when I invite the Connors over for
dinner, we'll have some firm figures to discuss.”

At Tomas’ look of intense interest, her brows rose. Hmm-

“Do you know Fred Connors?” she asked, keeping her tone innocent.

“No,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. “We've never met.”

“The Connors were old and dear friends of my parents,” she offered. “I only wish I understood
construction better so I could explain things to Fred. He's agreed to help me in whatever way he can to
get the school up and operational.”

She turned to leave. “I'll go change into a work dress now. When I return, I'll start handing you those
tools.”

* * * *

Tomas liked teasing Sera. A lot. Maybe a little too much. It was dangerous, this blossoming friendship
thing they seemed to have going. But because he liked watching her smile, liked watching her too serious
expression lighten up, he let the danger of it go by the boards.

“Tomas, what do you expect from me?” she asked him later that same evening. “You've installed these
beautiful new windows-”

“Hey, you helped-” She was the prettiest carpentry assistant he'd ever had.

“Yes, but you said you don't expect reimbursement for the materials and labor, and I know you don't
approve of my idea of starting a music school on the Southside, and so I guess I'm confused. I'd like to
know what's in it for you?”

“What's in it for me?” he repeated, like an idiot, like a cabron.

“Yes. I told you once before that I'm not naïve. What do you expect in return for all this work and time
you and your men have put in? You must want something.”

She was opening it all up. Now was the time to tell her what he needed from her.

Tomas rushed out the words, knowing if he stopped now, he'd never finish. “I'm not married,” he said,
bluntly, “and I find myself in need of...”

“A home cooked meal and some sex afterwards?”

“Something like that. But not necessarily in that order.”

“Reassuring to know I'm a cut above the meatloaf,” she said looking wistful and sad.

It was only fair to let Sera know what kind of man he was. That's what he'd tried to do last night; that's
what he'd tried to do again today. While they'd worked on the windows, he hadn't watched his language
in front of her. He hadn't censored his conversation-

Okay, maybe he'd watched some of his p's and q's. Sera was a nice lady and he didn't want to be real
crude in front of her. He'd let some four-letter words fly. But he drew the line at her looking wistful and
sad. The woman had only just lost her husband, a husband she'd loved; she had to be feeling plenty
enough wistful and sad already without him adding to it.

“Hold on there!” he teased. “I happen to like meatloaf. Fact is, meatloaf's one of my favorite things.
Ditto for sex.”

When she smiled and rolled her eyes in that cute way of hers, which let him know that she was okay
again, he went back to tackling the proposition he needed to make.

“Here's the deal, Sera. You're a nice woman, and because of certain things in my background, I haven't
been with many nice women. None actually.” He shoved his hands in the back pockets. “I'd like us to get
to know one another. That's important in a situation like this.”

“Really? Why?” Sera tilted her jaw.

“Considering what we're discussing, I think getting to know one another is important.”

“What exactly are we discussing? I'm afraid I'm not entirely following the direction of this conversation.”

Why had he started this? He was making a mess of things. That's what sleep deprivation and a constant
hard-on did to a man.

After cleaning up the broken glass, he'd spent the rest of the night in his pickup, one bleary eye on the
woods, the other on the house. With the windows broken out, Sera was more vulnerable than before;
there was no way he could return to his comfy bed in the trailer, knowing Sera wasn't safe. Someone had
to watch out for her, in case another low-life thought scaring her was a great idea, and it looked like that
someone was him.

Her hands went to her hips. “What kind of a situation is this, Tomas?”

“A desperate situation,” he replied, glumly, watching her fingers tighten into fists: Sera was upset. That
was the last thing he wanted to have happen. He should never have opened his mouth.

Her forehead puckered. “Desperate? Why desperate?”

He couldn't stand seeing that fearful look back in her eyes. He wanted that look gone. “Don't worry. I
have a solution, one that will work for both of us, so that we both get what we want. I thought...maybe,
that is to say, if you didn't mind too much, that you and I could...”

Tomas ground to a screeching halt. He didn't know how to phrase his proposal and not have it come out
seeming cold and calculating and unfeeling. How could he ask Sera what he needed to ask Sera and not
have it come off sounding as though he was taking advantage of her, when hell, he was taking advantage
of her?

He held all the cards. He could make or break her dream for a school at the Monroe mansion. And he
wasn't exactly being altruistic with his offer to help her. The lady was right about him wanting something
from her in return. What words wouldn't make what he wanted sound crass, when hey, his proposition
was crass?

A golden opportunity to score points with Connor had just fallen right into his lap. The music school was
Connor's pet project. All he had to do was tell Sera that he'd changed his mind about the school. That he
now thought a music school on the Southside was a terrific idea.

Nope. That would never fly. Sera was a smart lady; she'd never fall for that.

Okay, so he'd tell her he'd decided to let her stay on at the mansion. He'd tell her he'd even fix the place
up for her, soundproof practice rooms and everything. He'd tell her do all that in exchange for her
agreement to help him gain him some respectability in Fenton. That was the truth.

At least it was as close to the truth as he could get without hurting her feelings.

The harsh truth was that helping her with the school was a great public relations move. How could
Connor not approve of his bid for the Riverfront Project, then...especially if the school's director put in a
good word for him? If a recommendation from Sera didn't cinch the bid, nothing would.

Tomas let out the breath he was holding.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't use Sera like that...even for the sake of the Riverfront Project. He'd been
wrong about the lady; she wasn't a white-glove do-gooder who'd descended upon the Southside with a
whole lot of pie in the sky dreams to set everything straight. She wasn't a dreamer at all. Sera was a
hands-on kind of woman who believed strongly in what she was doing. He didn't happen to think the
school would work out, but he couldn't fault her for trying. Not any more.

Man, Sera was already looking at him weird. If he said what he needed to say, she'd throw him out on
his ass. Worse, she'd hate him. He didn't want her to hate him-

“Listen, you don't want to cook me supper and-and the rest, just say so. My idea wouldn't have worked
out anyway.”

“What wouldn't have worked out? What idea?”

“Don't get all bent outta shape . I understand. A nice lady like you never would have gone along with it,”
he said, heading for the door. “Forget we even had this conversation!”

“What conversation?” she asked, and running after him to the top of the dilapidated stairs. “I don't

understand what we just talked about.”

“Us,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “And be careful of the damn stairs ‘til I get chance to fix ‘em.
They're rotten all the way through.” Just like him.

“There is no us,” she shouted after him.

“That's where you're wrong. As of last night, we're an us.”

“That's where you're wrong. As of last night, the candle and I are an us. But you and I?” Here, she
shook her head. “We are not an us.”

He laughed his ass off all the way to his truck. Sera had to be about the most naïve woman he'd ever
known.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Seraphina rushed through the service entrance of The Pink Flamingo, late for her first night on the job.

Lou, impeccably tailored in a white shirt, red tie, striped silk vest, and pleated pants was behind the bar
when she hurried over to explain.

“I'm sorry I'm late! And on my first night too,” she fretted, picking up a drink-laden tray. “My car broke
down on the way; I had to walk here.”

Lou finished filing a patron's drink order and set the glass down on the gleaming bar. “You walked
here?” he said slowly. “From the old Monroe place?”

“It's not all that far,” she protested.

“It's not a question of distance. I grew up in this neighborhood, the same as Rox and Tomas. A lone
woman shouldn't walk these streets, and never at night. I'll give you a ride home after closing tonight.”

Rarely if ever rude, Sera didn't tell Lou that she'd walked far worse streets, alone. In Calcutta.

The manager of The Flamingo had a kind heart, so she smiled and said, “Thanks. I'd appreciate it.”

The weary-faced manager of The Pink Flamingo smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his
expression changing from boredom to a wary interest. In her.

That interest was a heady realization. Lou was a handsome man, surrounded by gorgeous women, and
yet he was smiling at her.

A giggle bubbled within Sera.

Sometimes, she felt like she was sixteen years old again, spreading her social wings for the first time.
She'd never dated before marriage; her parents hadn't allowed that sort of thing. She'd never even kissed
Matt prior to the wedding night-

They hadn't kissed then either.

The memory of her wedding night effectively squelched any girlish urge to giggle.

Trapped once again in memories of her sterile marriage, Seraphina picked up the drink-laden tray.
Balancing it on the tilt of her hip, she made her way across the floor, the dark atmosphere of the bar
competing with the gloom inside herself.

This time, though, when the familiar depression descended, as it had so often done this past year, she
fought back. Somewhere, from some hitherto untapped source, came the energy she needed to lift the
curtain of guilt about Matt, about her conflicted feelings for him.

She was no longer the good little girl of missionary parents. Neither was she a saintly man's faithful and
obedient and dutiful wife. She was an adult woman with needs, and the only person she was answerable
to in getting those needs addressed was herself. If she chose to respond to one man's look of sexual
interest-Lou's-after only just responding to another man's tersely worded sexual commands-Tomas's—it
was her own dar-damn business!

After the sterility of her marriage, after all the years she had sublimated her real self, she had a right to a
little adventuring, a right to a little recklessness.

And so when Lou said, “Maybe I could come in for a cup of..."-here, he made a distasteful face-"... tea
or something when I drive you home,” she bravely replied, “I'd like that.”

Stunned by her own daring, Seraphina backed up.

“I'll j-j-just go take this to the table now,” she stammered and fled.

* * * *

Achy feet and all, Sera was happy with her first Friday night at The Pink Flamingo. The six-hour shift
flew right by! She'd delivered enough drinks to sink a battleship and sung herself hoarse. If her bulging
apron pockets were any indication, the crowd had enjoyed the bawdy burlesque tunes and vintage
Broadway production numbers. She must have received a hundred dollars in tips!

Thrilled with her reception, Lou proclaimed the singing-waitress gimmick a huge success.

'Lou has big plans for The Pink Flamingo', Roxanne confided to Sera in the dressing room. Roxie had
gone on to whisper that Lou was ‘a strait-laced kind of guy who didn't approve of women taking off their
clothes'. In fact, Rox told her that Lou hated operating a strip-joint and that he was trying to change the
bar's image from raunchy to classy. Apparently, Lou saw hiring a singing waitress who kept her clothes
on as a step in that direction.

Obviously, Lou was a man of vision.

Seraphina only wished the vision didn't include five-inch stiletto strappies; her feet really were killing her.

But she wasn't about to complain, not about the shoes, not about some of the more enthusiastic
members of the entirely male audience at The Pink Flamingo.

By midnight, she'd become adroit at avoiding tricky gropes. Especially, those tricky gropes coming from
one table of particularly obnoxious college kids in the back, a tiresome, adolescent group of frat boys

intent upon besting each other by copping a feel of the waitress.

“C'mon baby! Be nice to us and they'll be a big fat tip in it for you at the end of the night,” a boy with a
buzz-cut told her in an oily voice to the gawking amusement of his drunken buddies at the table.

“I don't get paid to be that kind of nice to the customers,” Seraphina replied, as she removed his pudgy
palm from her fishnet stockings. “I get paid to deliver the food and liquid refreshments, and to sing. And
that's all the nice I get paid for.”

“There's a fifty in my wallet says you'll deliver more,” the Lothario crooned, his hand walking up the
back of her leg again.

She was about to give him the put-down he deserved, something about the size of his mouth being in
direct disproportion to the size of his brain, when a deep voice resonated behind her.

“I'm a big tipper too, pal. Here's yours: lay a finger on the lady again and I'll mess up your perfect smile.”

It was Tomas Ruiz as she had never seen him. The sexy charmer was gone and in his place was a tough
desperado.

Two hands on her shoulders, she was placed squarely behind him. Then, he was back at the college kid.

“It'd be a shame if my fist wasted all those years your mama made you wear braces, don't you think?”
he asked the frat jock.

The kid's hand went to his mouth; he really did have a perfectly aligned bite. “No, sir. I mean, yes sir.”

“Apologize to the lady or I guarantee your retainer won't fit tomorrow.”

The buzz-cut stumbled hastily to his feet. “I apologize, ma'am.”

She nodded. “Apology accepted.”

Tomas put out his hand. “Hand over the car keys; you're not driving back to the dorm tonight.”

The keys were volunteered.

“You'll find your wheels in the back parking lot tomorrow. You can pick up the car after you sober up,”
Tomas advised the kid.

One brown hand on her elbow, she was ushered away from the table.

“You okay?” Tomas asked.

“I could have handled that situation myself.” In a huff, Sera pulled her elbow free.

“Yeah. I saw how you were handling the situation. Pardon my language, but any more of that kind of
handling and the frat boy would've pledged in his boxers.”

And that comment just made her so angry. She'd been in all kinds of hairy situations, situations he knew
nothing about, and she'd handled every one of them. He had the wrong idea about her. To set him

straight, the first thing she needed to do was take a flying leap off that holier-than-thou pedestal he'd
stuck her on.

No time like the present.

“You're here to spy on me,” she accused.

He had the audacity to look offended. “I always drop by on the weekends. You know, to see how
everything's doin'. Check in on the girls.”

Itching for a fight, she said, “Check out the girls is more like it. Looking to get laid, Ruiz?” Not by her, of
course. She should get so lucky!

Wide shoulders were carelessly shrugged. “Yeah, well you know how it goes. I have my reputation to
uphold. Can't let the image slide. I work hard all week, come the weekend, I'm a Tomcat on the
downtown prowl.”

“Careful of the pink plumage when you go downtown. Wouldn't want a Tomcat like you coughing up
feather balls ‘till Monday.”

Tomas’ sensual mouth gaped. “What the hell kind of a thing is that for a missionary lady to say!”

“Oh, spare me your stereotyping, Ruiz. I am so not the woman you think I am.”

His dark eyes glinted. “I saw your car on the way into town. You need a new battery.”

“But I left my car locked up tight! How do you know I need a new battery?”

“I popped the lock,” he said, as though the ability to break into an automobile was a skill everyone
possessed. “I'll take care of it tomorrow. For tonight, I'm driving you home.”

“Th-thank you,” she said falteringly, adding grand theft auto to Tomas Ruiz's dubious list of
accomplishments, “but Lou has already offered.”

“He has, huh? Well, since Lou no longer lives on the Southside, and I still do, I'll spare him the trip.”

* * * *

True to his word, at the end of her shift, Tomas was waiting for her outside the service exit of The Pink
Flamingo, slouched against the side of his company truck. As soon as he saw her, he removed his
baseball cap. This was done right before opening the truck door. For a man with a street punk's
reputation, he had awfully nice manners.

Sera stared at the open door.

What should she do?

Her feet hurt, it was after midnight, and she lived in the worst part of town. Should she stamp her aching
instep and say, ‘No thanks, I'll walk the mile and a half home to the Southside?’ Or maybe say, ‘No, I'll
take a cab,’ when she couldn't afford the taxi fare?

She was a mature and practical woman; she climbed up and into the truck without a hitch, even though
her straight black skirt was too snug for comfort, the style not at all what she was used to wearing.

They were silent all the way back to the mansion, no mention of their strange discussion about sex and
meatloaf, no conversation at all.

When the truck came to a stop on the mansion's drive, she unhitched her safety belt, and placed her
hand on the door handle; still steamed about his highhandedness, her mature practicality didn't extend to
thanking Tomas for the ride home. Before she could get the door open, Tomas had jumped out and
opened it for her-there were those gentlemanly manners again.

He stretched out his hand to her. “I'm walking you inside,” he mumbled. “Take a look around, turn on
the lights, check the locks, stuff like that.”

She didn't want to go into a dark house alone so late at night, not after the rock-throwing incident, but
she had her pride. “Seeing me inside really isn't necessary.”

Ignoring his proffered assistance, she slid down off the truck seat unaided and, in a really, really,
graceless move brought on by a too-tight skirt and her own stupid stubbornness, fell like a flapping
flounder right into his chest.

His arms closed protectively around her. “You okay?” he asked, the scent of his warm body rising up to
her nose.

Oh, those pheromones! The way Tomas Ruiz smelled appealed to her on a base sensory level she
couldn't begin to explain. She had no idea if a male's olfactory sense worked the same way as a female's;
she only knew that when a man smelled right to her, he smelled right. There was just no mimicking it. She
was very receptive to the hard-working-man scent of Tomas Ruiz.

Reaching a hand up between the press of their bodies, she made a ridiculous attempt to arrange her hair
when what she really wanted to do was disarrange his. “I-I'm fine,” she stammered. “It was a long jump
to the ground, that's all.”

A long jump that had absolutely nothing to do with her current breathlessness or the rapidly hardening
tips of her breasts; something else ...or rather...someone else had caused those sensations.

Not wanting to lose contact with that someone else, she slid down Tomas’ body like suction cups were
attached to her nipples.

Much later, when her feet encountered ground, she put herself to rights. She started with straightening
out her too tight skirt, which had somehow managed to creep up to her thighs.

When she smoothed a palm over her backside, Tomas gave a cough. “I know you don't want to be seen
associating with the likes of me, so I'll make the house-check quick.”

Like his feet were on fire, he led the way to the back door.

She had to run, in stilettos no less, to catch up. “That isn't why I didn't want you to come inside,” she
said incredulously, panting at his heels. “And anyway, who's to see you? I have no neighbors.
Furthermore, even if I did have nosy neighbors, there's nothing wrong with you coming inside. We're
both adults. Besides which, you didn't seem to have a problem coming inside the other night. While I was

bathing,” she reminded him, perhaps not with venom but with a very definite squeeze of lemon.

She was still angry about his cavalier treatment, jumping into the fray to defend her honor like that at The
Flamingo! Who did he think he was, anyway? Why, he'd been almost been...well...territorial, both with
those college jocks and with Lou. He'd practically acted like he owned her-

A darkly delicious shiver ran through her, sexual awareness replacing her anger. Could it be, was it
possible, had Tomas Ruiz actually been jealous?

Biting her lip, she gave herself over to the deeply satisfying thought, until Tomas ruined the fantasy by
saying, “About the other night, Sera. You needed someone and it just so happened that I was available.
That's all that it was.”

Oh-

That's all that it was?

At the doormat, Tomas looked at her sincerely. “After all, you don't really know me. If you did, you
never would've turned to me.”

“I was raised to trust people, Tomas. To accept them at face value. I don't know any other way to be. I
don't think for one moment that you're here tonight to take advantage of me. You didn't the other night,
and you won't now. You're just not that kind of man.” Mores the pity-

“You don't know what kind of man I am, Sera.”

No, she didn't. Not completely. But she was beginning to believe his press was greatly exaggerated. She
was beginning to believe he was not quite the bad boy he wanted people to believe he was. It almost
seemed to her that, rather than using all that masculine appeal of his as a tool of seduction, he employed it
as weapon of defense.

Against her?

Crazy idea! She was hardly worth the effort.

Against all women?

Hmmm. Could be. It was an interesting idea, anyway.

She hadn't thought so at first, but she was beginning to think after much reflection that there might be
more going on inside Tomas than what was seen on the surface, that there might be some hidden depths
that she hadn't thought him capable of-

“I guess we're even. I don't know what kind of man you are.” She looked into his black brooding eyes.
“And I don't think you know what kind of woman I am either, Tomas.”

Impasse. Stalemate. Deadlock. No way out. A Southside dark alley that ended at a brick wall, getting
them nowhere.

In the end, Tomas came inside, did exactly what he said he would do, and then left. His damned good
manners and gentlemanly consideration were beginning to play havoc with her nerves. It was upsetting to

have a man pegged as one thing and then have him turn out to be something else entirely.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tomas slumped in a chair beside Myra's desk. “I blew it. I'm a complete and total louse up.”

His administrative assistant reached for her mug of coffee mocha, and said nothing.

“I choked,” he said putting his chin in his hands. “I had this whole speech prepared. Very business-like
too. No emotion at all. I thought it would be so easy!”

“Uh-huh-”

“First, I'd list all the reasons why the arrangement would work. All the benefits to both of us. But I
couldn't spit out a single word.”

Myra eyed him over the cup rim. “Uh-huh.” She took another sip of coffee and waited.

“Dammit! I want this Riverfront Project! Getting it would mean hundreds of new jobs on the Southside.
But I couldn't do it. It just seemed so ... cold somehow.”

Myra took another fortifying slurp. “Uh-huh.”

“I never even got as far as asking her. I choked. I didn't know how to put it and have it come out
sounding like the logical thing to do.” His head dropped lower. “She really is a nice lady. I really do
admire her.”

“I'm sure she is. I'm sure you do. Otherwise, a sweet-talker like you wouldn't have been tongue-tied.”

“That's the thing! I don't want to sweet talk her. As much as I can, I want to be up front with her. Hard
to do, now that she's not talking to me.”

“Why isn't she talkin'?”

“She's upset, I guess.”

Myra started tapping her fingers. “Why is she upset?”

“She thought I was at The Flamingo to check up on her.”

Tap. “Were you?”

“Were I what?”

Tap. Tap. “Checking up on her,” Myra said-well, it was more like a screech than a said.

“Well, hell, yeah! You don't think I'd let her work there and not make sure she was doing okay? And
good thing I did too; a table of morons tried getting fresh with her and I had to teach them some
manners.”

“That's what Lou does! You know he's not gonna let things get out of hand over there at The Flamingo.
The man's an ex-cop, for crying out loud. He knows how to settle things down.”

“Yeah, well,” Tomas blustered, still nursing a large resentment over the dick's offer to drive Sera home.
“Lou wasn't doing such a hot job of settling last night!”

Tap. Tap. TAP. “Did you give him a chance? Or did you stick your nose in where it didn't belong?”

“I couldn't help myself! The guy had his hand on Sera leg!”

Myra sighed. “Okay. So, call her. Tell her you messed up, and that you're sorry. A good grovel is the
only way. After you're finished groveling, and it better be a long one, none of this sound-bite crap, then
ask her what you need to ask her.”

Tomas lifted his dropped head. “Call her? You mean, like, on the phone?”

“Who am I dealing with here?” she asked, ignoring him and directing her question to the blinking cursor
on her twenty inch twenty-inch computer screen.

He'd just installed that PC because Myra's best friend, Sally Higgins, worked on one, and his
administrated assistant thought they should keep up with technology. The monitor was a bright shade of
glaring blue, to match Myra's favorite glittering blue eye-shadow, and though he knew it would never get
used-hell, pencils didn't get used in his office-what his sweetheart wanted, he made sure she got. But now
it was like she had someone to gang up on him with, two against one. Maybe the PC wasn't such a hot
idea-

Myra turned back to him eventually. “Yes, on the phone! Must everything be done E-mail? My gawd!
Between cloning and the ‘net, soon there'll be no reason at all for men and women to ever get together.”

Tomas picked up the receiver.

After turning up the volume on her hearing aid, Myra leaned back in her chair to have a listen.

* * * *

The Southside's branch of the Fenton Public Library was located in a dilapidated brick building that
abutted Riverfront Park.

With Calia Vasquez's help, Seraphina had set up a public relations table on the sidewalk outside to catch
patrons as they came and went. Their target group was mothers with young children, there to either
attend various pre-school reading hours or to drop off and pick-up children at the day care agency house
in the library's basement.

They'd done a brisk business explaining the school's children's music program and Calia was looking
worriedly at the two pamphlets left on the table, all that remained of the mountain they'd started the day
off with. “Why don't I run back to your car for more pamphlets?” she volunteered.

“You don't mind?” Seraphina replied.

“Not at all. Where are you parked?”

“Behind the library, right on the river, under a tree. I was lucky to have found the shady spot.”

“Seraphina-on the Southside, there are certain places a woman can park and certain places a woman
cannot park. Under a tree on the river is one of the places where a woman should never park.”

“Oh, dear.” She grabbed her purse and stood. “We'll both go.”

“No need.” Calia waved as she walked away. “I'll be careful. I know my way around the river and I
don't want you losing any future students.” She gestured to a group of three giggling little girls with their
mom. “Like them, for instance. They might be future violinists someday and I want to be there to say I
knew them when.”

Ten minutes later, Seraphina had finished giving her spiel to the mom and her three daughters and Calia
still hadn't returned.

Sera hated to admit it, but she was apprehensive about her teacher's safety. She was about to close up
shop and go looking for her, when off in the distance, she spied her pretty young music teacher walking
back towards the library. At her side, was a swaggering young man wearing gang colors and carrying a
tall stack of pamphlets. Extraordinarily, Calia seemed at ease with him. In fact, she was laughing into the
stern-set of his dark features.

Calia presented her escort. “Mrs. Seraphina Norris, I'd like you to meet the leader of the R.P.'s, Enrico
Cortez.”

Sera could tell this young man wouldn't be a hand-shaker. After placing his stack of pamphlets on the
table, he gave her a nod.

She nodded back

“Enrico and I attended high school together,” Calia explained.

“Oh, how nice! You're old friends!” Sera said, much relieved; Calia was a very pretty young woman.

“Not exactly old friends,” Enrico related, his features still set granite-hard. “We barely knew one another
in school. Calia Vasquez was class valedictorian; I barely graduated from my shop classes.” Enrico's tight
expression softened a little. “But she did slow dance with me once under the moonlight out in the school
parking lot.”

Calia blushed and dropped her eyes. “I thought you'd forgotten.”

“Not me.”

“Enrico,” Sera said brightly, never one to let an opportunity to promote the school escape, “would you
be interested in taking an adult music education course at the conservatory this September?”

She quickly skimmed the offerings. “Lets see,” she said, reading directly from the course roster, “we'll
be offering drums. Electric guitar...”

“Classical violin,” Enrico replied before she'd finished. “That's the instrument I'd be interested in taking.”

Sera blinked. “Violin?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You're in luck; Calia is our violin teacher.”

“Good,” Enrico said his voice warm, his eyes all for his former classmate. “Where do I sign up?”

* * * *

Tomas was heading for his truck when he heard a, “Psst! Over here, man,” coming from the vicinity of
his outdoor equipment shed.

It had to be important for the RP's leader to show up in the middle of the day at the site.

Tomas didn't mince words. “Orale? What's up, ‘Rico?”

“Seraphina Winslow was at the library today.”

“Yeah, I know. What happened?”

“I was watching over them like I told you I would, but they ran out of the damn pamphlets, and Calia left
to get some more. There's only one of me and I couldn't watch them both, so I trailed Calia. And lucky I
did, cuz Mrs. Norris had parked that blue heap of hers off road inside the park.”

Tomas’ dark skin went pale.

“They were waiting for her, man. They wanted the teacher. But they were gonna settle for Calia.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I got there in time and scared them off. Calia didn't even know what was happening, no clue they
were waiting to jump her. She could've been hurt, Tomas!”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“They scattered, but yeah, I could finger them if I had to. Punk dealers, every one of ‘em. They traded
out of the mansion before the teacher moved in.” Enrico pounded his fist against his thigh. “They're after
Mrs. Norris, man, and in a big way. I know those junkies and I know how they operate. They won't quit
until they get the teacher. They almost got to Calia today. I won't let it happen again.”

Tomas grabbed hold of Enrico's shoulder. “I'm sorry about Calia.”

“The dealers got too close to her, Tomas. They almost put their filthy hands on her. And it won't stop.
Now that Calia is chillin’ with Mrs. Norris over at the mansion, by association, she'll be considered fair
game.”

Enrico tightened his gang armband. “From now on, I watch Calia. Where she's at, that's where I'm at. I
suggest you do the same with Mrs. Norris. Stick to her the way I'm sticking to Calia. If we don't watch
out for our women, who will?”

Our women?

Weird, but Tomas didn't bother to correct ‘Rico's mistake.

* * * *

Sera placed a clean jelly jar filled with buttercups slightly off center on her scratched oak table. The
bright yellow blossoms grew in a clump by her back door. The garden she'd planned wasn't planted yet,
and goodness knows, she couldn't afford to buy cut flowers, but the buttercups looked very pretty. One
person's weed was another person's wildflower, she supposed.

As a child of missionaries, she'd learned early on to get by with very little in the way of material
possessions. When she'd married, nothing changed. Matt had cared very little about the things of this
earth; his thoughts were directed to a higher, spiritual plane. After her bout with cholera, she'd left India
with only a suitcase. The scratched oak table was the first piece of furniture she'd ever owned, and she
loved it, scratches and all. Later, when she had some extra time, she'd strip the table down and sand out
some of the deeper gauges; the superficial imperfections she'd ignore. Those imperfections gave the table
character, made a piece of furniture interesting. And besides, shabby chic was in style...

Seraphina knew enough about herself to understand why she was standing in the kitchen worrying over
silly things like a scratched table and fussing over the placement of a flower arrangement, instead of doing
something practical, like slicing the loaf of bread. Tomas Ruiz was coming over for dinner this evening
and the butterflies inside her stomach were flapping away like crazy.

There he was now, the man who caused those flapping wings, knocking on the screen.

Whipping her cobbler apron over her head, she smoothed her fingers over her hair and raced for the
back door.

“Please come in,” she said, opening the screen and stepping back to allow him plenty of room to enter.
He was such a large man!

Tomas handed her a bouquet of roses. “You look real nice,” he said.

She'd tried. The conservative powder blue dress was her best, but it was years old and horribly
outdated. The dress befitted the wife of a missionary: high collar, long sleeves, and a hem that fell to her
calves, modest enough for anybody's granny to wear. The blue dress definitely had to go. Right after
dinner, she'd put it in her ragbag with the rest of her saved scraps of material. Someday, she might even
find the time to make that quilt...

“Thank you, Tomas. For both the compliment and the flowers.”

Preceding him, Sera went back inside the house to the kitchen, where she placed the expensive rose
bouquet in the jelly jar amongst the wild-growing buttercups. The flowers, wild and cultivated,
complimented one another on the scratched table.

“By the way, Tomas, feel free to use the front entrance. Now that you fixed the electricity, there's no
need for you to continue to walk all the way ‘round back when you visit. The bell now works just fine.”

“I think it's better if I'm not seen coming and going from the house, especially at night, until we have a
few things resolved between us. That's why I'm not using the front door.”

Her brow puckered. “Resolved? What needs to be resolved?”

“Before I come to your front door, I want you to understand what you're letting yourself in for by being
seen in public with a man like me. People talk, and they sure as hell are gonna talk about the company
you're keeping if that company is me. You have the school to consider, your reputation in the
community-”

“For goodness sakes! We're only having dinner together. That's hardly keeping company.”

Such an old-fashioned term! And disconcerting too, coming as it was from such a hip man. Which is
why, she supposed, she let slip the terrible truth about her advanced age. “Besides, at almost thirty-one,
I'm far too old for you to keep company with.”

Tomas gave a short hoot. “Sera, you ain't nothing but a babe in the wood.”

“I'm older than you!” she blurted.

“I'll be twenty-six come my next birthday. That's only a five-year difference between us. Factor in my
experience, and I'm the one doing the cradle robbing.”

“Nevertheless, we are not keeping company,” she said obstinately.

Tomas examined the tip of his scuffed boot, then made a big production of sniffing the air. “What's on
top of the stove, woman?”

Sera went along with the change of subject without calling him on it; she didn't want to talk about their
‘keeping company’ either. The very idea was absurd! “Spaghetti sauce. I hope you like Italian? It was
too hot for the oven tonight.”

To give her hands something to do, she stirred the large pot that was simmering on the stovetop. “A little
old lady who lived in New York City gave me this recipe.”

“You've been to New York?”

“I've been all over the country. My parents had missions in several different states, as well as in South
America, and India. We moved around quite a lot when I was growing up. We moved to Calcutta when
I was twelve years old. I only left to attend college here in the States.”

“That's something you and I have in common. I moved around a lot too as a kid.”

“Tell me about it!” she exclaimed. “Maybe we've lived in some of the same places. We can compare
notes.”

“Some other time, okay?” He handed her a box that he'd had under his arm.

When she looked at it quizzically, he said, “It's nothing much. Just after dinner mints. I didn't know what
else to bring.”

“Flowers and candy! So very thoughtful. Although, after installing those beautiful windows, I should be
the one giving you presents.”

Tomas arched his jaw to her high ceiling, thereby continuing to avoid eye contact with her. Why didn't he
want to look at her?

“That ceiling fan really circulates the air in here. I should get one for my trailer. That tin box really heats
up in the summer, and in the winter, it's as cold as a witch's ti-It's cold enough inside to make ice cubes.”

Serahina smiled to herself. Tomas was trying so hard not to offend her. Like, she hadn't heard the word
‘tit’ before it came out of his mouth! “You live in a trailer?”

“Yup. I'm a vagabond. I live in my trailer and I move from site to site, wherever a construction job takes
me.”

Tomas Ruiz was a fairly successful builder. He could afford something better than a trailer! It didn't
make sense that he would choose to live so simply.

Yet, when she thought about it, there was no flash about him, no indicator at all that he was anything
more than your average Joe construction worker.

Curious now, she asked, “Why do you live in a trailer? I mean, you certainly can't need to,
money-wise.”

He shrugged. “I like having a house on wheels. That way, I can weigh anchor, or in my case, utility
connections, and move on anytime I want. My office is also housed in the trailer. It makes things easier.”

“No posh office in town?”

“Nope.” His eyes bypassed hers and rested like two ebony butterflies on the bouquet of flowers on the
table. “I've been on my own since I was thirteen, and I like keeping my stuff around me. I guess that
makes me something of a turtle-

huh? Carrying my house with me wherever I go.” He laughed.

Seraphina wasn't fooled by the laugh. “On your own since the age of thirteen! But you were only a
child,” she said softly, unable to hide her sympathy for this complicated man. “What about your parents?”

“My parents were common-law. You know, they weren't legally married. I never knew my mother; she
took off when I was only a few months old. And my old man tried his best, but he was, well, he was...not
cut out to be strapped down with a kid 24/7. He'd go away for days, weeks at a time. The weeks
started turning into months. Eventually, he took off too. Who could blame him?”

“I could,” she said in righteous indignation, charity cast to the winds. “I could blame them both. I wish
they were here right now so I could give them both a piece of my mind about parental responsibility. You
just don't take off on a child!”

He coughed. “Um-how'd we get on this subject, anyway? This is no way to talk to a pretty lady who's
invited a guy over for a meal.”

She was stunned. “Yes it is! We're getting to know one another. Sharing backgrounds is part of it.”

“I'd rather not, if you don't mind? Makes me uncomfortable.”

“I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable, but if I ever run into either of the two parents-and I use
that term loosely-who abandoned you, I'd tell them exactly what I thought!”

“No chance of that happening; they're both dead.”

She gasped. “I'm so sorry! What a terrible thing for me to have said!”

He shrugged. “You didn't know. Neither did I, not for a long time.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“When I first started making some money, I checked into their whereabouts. I figured, maybe I could
help them out. Financially. Get them cleaned up. Send them to a good rehab program someplace. Hell, I
don't know. I had to do something. They were my flesh and blood! But I was too late. They had both
O.D.'d years before. Heroin. Back then, drugs were easy to get on the Southside. They still are.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said again; it was all she could think of to say.

“Here we go being polite to each other again. I'm beginning to think we keep apologizing because we're
so different from each other.”

“Not so very different-”

“Honey, you have no idea.”

And then her dinner guest was backing up. “I left...uh...something in the truck. Give me a minute, okay?”

Before she could say, ‘Don't go’ Tomas Ruiz was racing through the door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

What the fuck was he doing having dinner with Sera? Tomas asked himself as he paced around outside
in the dark.

Talking about his gritty childhood! What the hell kind of dinner conversation was that to be having with a
nice woman?

His childhood was his hot button. Sure, he had some money. But he didn't always. In his head, he was
still dirt-poor. And deep down inside himself, he knew that people like him didn't associate with people
like her. They never rubbed shoulders. They didn't walk the same streets. The people he knew, his
friends, never graduated high school, never mind college. They sure as hell weren't music teachers.

Music was an extra. People he knew were struggling for the basics, like food and a job and a decent
neighborhood to raise up their kids. Playing an instrument was a luxury few kids on the Southside, even
kids from intact families, got to explore.

His inbred edginess had probably hurt her feelings.

Tomas was real sorry about that, but there were some things a man like him didn't ever talk about. Like,
the things that drove him. The stuff that ate him up inside, even now, years later.

All his fault if he'd hurt her feelings. It was the man's responsibility to keep things in check.

Lately, he seemed to lose it whenever he was with Sera. It was bye-bye muy suave vato and hello
bumbling idiot.

The lady kept catching him by surprise. Sometimes she seemed so innocent, and then other times, she'd
do or say this worldly-wise kind of thing and knock him for a loop.

He'd just have to be more careful with her, that's all, Tomas decided while he paced the drive. Sera
meant no harm. She was just pouring on the questions, doing a ‘getting to know you routine', not
comprehending that he didn't want anyone getting to know him, didn't want anyone getting inside his
head, under his skin, not that way, not that deep.

He'd have to keep things in check because he wanted to go on seeing Sera-

Wait. Make that, he needed to go on seeing Sera.

There was the Riverfront Project to think of. His men were depending on that protect, and other jobs
that would come after, for their bread and butter. Sera could help him get that job. He just needed to
stay in control around her.

It'd be tough. Damn straight, he never had to deal with this kind of dilemma before. By now, he and a
date would've been in bed, and sex would pretty much have ended any deep conversation.

Tomas raked his hand through his still damp, shower-washed hair. He couldn't go back inside that
kitchen again until he got it together. And the thing was, when talking about the past, he never had it
together. And knowing Sera, she wasn't fuckin’ gonna let it go. She wouldn't let up.

He had to stop her, get her to back off. Way off. But how?

Damned if he knew.

He was about to bolt when the porch door opened and Sera called out softly, “The rumor is that you're
having dinner with me tonight, Tomas.”

Too late now to make his escape. “Be right in. I have to-uh-get something in the truck first.”

Tomas grabbed what he needed from the glove compartment, and then hands jammed in his pockets,
walked back up the stairs.

Sera met him at the threshold. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Careful of that last step. Man, I gotta get to these rotten stairs this week-”

“Tomas, forget the stairs for now.” She cocked her light brown brow at him. “You know, call me silly,
but I think you ran from the house because you didn't want to talk about what happened after your father
left.”

“Not much to tell, and what there is, I'd rather not.”

Tomas stepped back into Sera's aromatic kitchen.

“And if you gotta know, I ran to the truck to get these.”

He brought his hand out of his pocket, revealing the box of condoms. “I figured after dinner we'd need
‘em, and I didn't want to interrupt the romance with a trip out to the truck at a critical moment.”

She stared at the small box. “Why not the economy size?”

Her finger was drawn down his chest. “Unless-are my expectations too high?”

Placing the box of twenty-a respectable number for any male past the age of eighteen-back in his
pocket, Tomas drew Sera close. A hand closed around the nape of her beautiful neck and leaning into
her, Tomas took Sera's slightly parted mouth.

His plan misfired. She didn't pull back, as he expected she would. She didn't try to keep him out when
his tongue made the giant leap from a friendly kiss to a bedroom kiss. Her mouth, if anything, opened to
him, inviting him inside.

There was that loop again that Sera kept knocking him through. He just wasn't prepared for the passion
of Sera, the heat of Sera, the damn, sweet womanliness of Sera.

He lost it. Again. His mouth ground against her mouth, his lips squashed against her teeth, his tongue
squeezed halfway down her throat, his dick, already erect, rammed against his fly.

It was either break the kiss or unzip.

Like he was flinging himself off a girder swinging ten floors ups, no hope of a making a landing without
some broken bones, Tomas fell off Sera's lips. Panting, chest heaving, his gut all tied up in knots, he
staggered back against the wall.

Man, he had to get out of the house. Had to push himself out the door. Had to get away from her fast
before he put it to her right there and right then.

Her lips. Christ, her lips. They were so damned soft. Her mouth was so giving. This was so much worse
than he expected.

Edging toward the screen, he rasped, “I'm way out of line here. I should leave-”

She stalked him like quarry. One step, then another, until she was under his chin. “I know what you're
doing, Tomas, and it won't work. Not with me.”

She smiled serenely, like a statue of the Madonna, completely unfazed by the kiss. While he was dying,
falling apart, unable to breathe, needing to get out of the damn house before he made a grab for her,
because that kiss...that kiss was the end of his world as he knew it.

What the hell did she mean it wouldn't work? What ‘it’ was she referring to? Not his cock. That it was
working just fine.

And then he didn't care what it she meant, because she was looking at him all expectant, like she really
wanted to be kissed again, and fool that he was, his hands unclenched-a big mistake, that-and he fell right
back into the softness of her mouth.

It felt so right kissing Sera.

Her arms went around his neck, wound around his neck. To make the fit more intimate, he took a step
closer, and his big hands started roaming. Filling his palms with her bottom, he drew her tight against his
erection, letting her know that he wasn't her kind of nice, that he would never be her kind of nice.

Rather than slapping his face and telling him just where he could get off, which is what she should have
done if she'd had any sense at all, she opened her legs and cradled his dick.

This was going too fast. Much too fast. Since it didn't seem to him like she was gonna stop it, that meant
he was gonna have to stop it.

He broke the kiss. Again. Forced himself to move away from her. Again. His heart feeling like it was
gonna bust wide open. Again. How much could a man take before he exploded, before his cock rammed
right through a metal fly and into a woman who didn't appear to know a dangerous situation even when
that dangerous situation was prodding her belly?

Tomas's normally agile hands dropped like lead to his sides. “Before we start something that there's only
one way to finish, you've gotta understand what you're letting yourself in for. I want to be square with
you.”

She nodded. “Excellent idea, discussing this like adults.” She took a step closer.

He pinned her with a look, and took two backward steps. “Sera, I don't want to take advantage of you.
We need to get things straight first.”

Problem was, Tomas had never been in this place before. Generally, women liked him. Generally, he
liked them. Generally, they just did IT, and had a helluva good time. Generally, there was no discussion,
either before or after. What was the etiquette in a situation like this?

He didn't think there was any etiquette.

By the time he realized what she was up to it was too late; he was already jammed into a corner and
there was no place further for him to retreat. “Wh-what are you doing?” he stammered.

“Turn around,” she said.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me, mister,” she scolded.

“But why,” he sorta whined.

“I want to give you a back massage.”

Since Sera had come into his life, he hadn't kept any of his weekly sessions with Lucille of the magic
fingers and the cat o'nine tails, and so yeah, his spine did feel a little outta whack. But that wasn't the
reason he turned and faced the wall. He did an about face because it was either that, or have her belly
make the acquaintance of his dick. He never had that problem with the leather-wearing Dominatrix.

“You're so tense!” Sera said as she rubbed between his shoulder blades. “I read somewhere that there
are these pressure points on the human body, and if an acupuncturist inserts a needle-”

Tomas let out a high-pitched squeak.

Sera tssked, her fingers digging into the back of his neck. “Don't tell me a big strong man like you is
afraid of needles?”

No, he wasn't afraid of needles; he was afraid of Sera's tits and what he wanted to do to them. Their
round softness was smashed against his back, and since he was looking at the wall, there was nowhere to
escape them.

“Could we maybe not talk about this?” he asked. Christ, her nipples were getting hard. He had to end
the conversation and get the hell away from her.

“I thought it was rather an interesting process. I mean, the needles were quite long and-”

“Woman, the guillotine was rather an interesting process too, unless it was your neck on the block, and I
don't want to talk about rolling heads right now either, if you don't mind.”

He shook like a dog after swimming in a mud hole and Sera fell off of him.

“Look-this isn't gonna work. I should...you know...leave...”

“I don't want you to leave, Tomas. You're right; we really should talk first. Let's start with the condoms.
“

She shook her head. “Overkill, Tomas. Two condoms would have done the trick. Anything more was a
sure indicator that you had an ulterior motive. Your purpose was to get me off the topic of your youth,
and your method was to get me angry.”

“Damn!” he said, playing it low-key. “I knew I should've gone with subtlety.”

Humor wasn't working; Sera was giving him another one of her schoolmarm tssks. “Tomas, I hate to
criticize, but you're nothing but a snob!”

Was that her idea of criticism?

He dumped the humor and acted hurt, pretended to reel under the weight of her censure, anything for an
excuse to leave.

“I've been called a lot of things in my time, but snob isn't one of them,” he replied adding a sniff at the
end for good measure.

“But you are a snob! You have this preconceived notion of what I'm supposed to be like and that's what
you're reacting to. You're certainly not reacting to the real me, the woman cooking you dinner, the
woman who just kissed you.” She wagged a finger at his nose. “Cut it out!”

Then Sera was shaking her head, and the schoolmarm tssking was turning into a pained sigh. “You
know, this is all my fault. I shouldn't have pressed you for personal information, Tomas. I should have
kept our conversation superficial. Anything more was impolite.”

Superficial. That was the ticket!

Only superficial wasn't what he wanted either, not if superficial made Sera sad. He hated it when Sera
looked sad.

“After my old man took off, I got involved in some bad stuff,” he blurted. “Gangs. Fights. Trouble with
the cops. I served some time for assault-I beat in a guy's skull for trying to rape a young prostitute I
knew. The dude didn't want his wife to know he was banging little girls so the charges against me were
later dropped. It's just luck that my record is clean.”

He watched her back away. Nothing abrupt, just a slow, inch by slow inch sort of withdrawal. He
doubted she even realized she was doing it. But he knew. He'd seen that look too many times not to
know it for what it was.

“Don't be nervous, honey,” he said, softly so as not to frighten her further.

Her chin came up. “I'm not nervous.”

She was plenty nervous, but he gave her a hoarse, “Good,” anyway, hating the way the emotion he
always tried to hide was creeping into his voice. “One nervous person is enough for any kitchen.”

“You're nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of doing or saying something that will spoil our evening.”

“Don't be silly! You never could,” she replied with a tremulous smile.

“Whew-what a relief! If you had ordered me out of this house with your kitchen smelling as good as it
does, I would've been in tears for sure.”

Sera moved to the sink, washing an already spotlessly clean but one hopeless wreck of a broken-down
countertop. That cracked top had to be replaced. After the stairs, the kitchen was his next project.
Women liked nice kitchens-

To break the tension, Tomas asked Sera quietly: “Can I do anything to help?”

“You can slice the bread while I strain the spaghetti.” She pointed to the drawer behind him. “The knife
is over there.”

He went to the drawer under the breadboard, pulled out the sharpest knife he could find, and began
making long, easy slices in the crusty loaf.

“Lately, I haven't felt much like cooking,” she said, by way of small talk. “I used to enjoy creating
appetizing meals, but it's hardly worth the time when you're cooking for only one person.”

Suddenly her husband was there in the kitchen with them. Tomas didn't know how it happened, but
there he was between them, like a ghostly chaperone. The man she loved was dead, and that's why Sera
didn't feel like cooking any more. That's why she had kissed him so hot; Sera missed her husband. His

mouth was just a substitute for the mouth she mourned for.

Steam rose from the pot and circled Sera's head like a halo as she strained the boiling spaghetti water
into the sink. Wisps of golden brown hair crimped into tiny corkscrews all over her forehead and her face
grew pink and dewy from the warmth. Sera was so beautiful. Angelically beautiful-

Tomas twirled the knife, making the blade spin in a revolution before he caught its narrow hilt. He was
proud of his hands. His fingers were fast and well coordinated. Maybe he could've learned to play the
piano, if he'd had the opportunity.

Sera looked over her shoulder, warily eyeing the glint of the twirling knife blade. “Where did you learn to
do that?”

He carefully placed the knife down beside the breadboard. “Sorry.”

“But where did you learn...?” she insisted.

“Here and there.” He cut her questions short. “It's a skill like any other, Sera. Not a skill maybe I would
have chosen, but I'm stuck with it now.” He took a deep breath. “Are we gonna be pussy-footing around
each other all night? Because if we are, I'm telling you right now, my digestion won't stand up to it. If you
look at me like you're about to jump out of your skin every time I do something outside your experience
we're in deep trouble here.”

“No I...”

“Don't bother denying it. I can see it in your eyes.”

She dumped the hot spaghetti onto a large serving platter. “Okay, maybe your life experiences are
different than mine, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends-”

She poured the most delicious sauce he's ever had the pleasure of inhaling over the white mound of
pasta. Oregano and tomatoes and piping hot spaghetti were in the middle of the platter. Not the rubbery,
open-up-a-can kind variety. Not the kind you got in restaurants. The real thing. Sera was the real thing
too.

Fuck the spaghetti! Let him at the cook. Sera looked so tasty, he could just eat her up.

That was one impulse he stomped on fast.

“We can never be friends, Sera. We're from two different worlds.”

Sera plunked the spaghetti and sauce and about a million round meatballs on the table. “As soon as
you're done with the bread, we can eat,” she said, an edge to her voice.

“It's done.”

“Then please take a seat,” his hostess replied, gesturing to a place setting across from hers.

Tomas was sorry Sera was scared, sorry she was pissed too, but he knew that in the end, making her
understand some basic facts about himself was the kindest thing he could've done for her.

So why did he feel as though he'd just missed out on something real important by refusing her offer of
friendship?

* * * *

After dinner, Sera filled the cracked enamel sink basin with hot water and detergent, and dunked the
stacked dinner plates. No fine china for her. Her dishes were all mismatched. With spaghetti piled on
them, Tomas probably hadn't noticed. He would now.

“A dishwasher didn't come with these digs, huh?” he teased, coming up behind her.

She laughed over at him as he moved to the side.

“I don't own one either. No room in the trailer,” he explained. “I'll dry and put away if you show me
where.”

Never one to turn down an offer of help, Seraphina tossed him a dishtowel. Then, picking up the soapy
sponge, she ran it across the surface of one of her best supermarket glasses. Not fancy crystal, but pretty
all the same.

“The mansion's got some good solid underpinnings,” Tomas said slowly, broaching the subject like a can
of bloodsucking worms.

She, on the other hand, wasn't at all squeamish. “Of course it does!” she exclaimed. “They don't build
houses like this any more.”

She covered her mouth with a soapy hand. “That was not meant as a sneaky attack on your construction
company, Tomas. I simply happen to prefer antiques to contemporaries.”

“No offence taken. Personally, I'd rather renovate old buildings than tear them down-if a structure can
be saved. Some can't. Listen, stop trying to convince me that this house can be rehabbed; you've already
swung my opinion.”

She turned off the tap with a snap of her soapy wrist. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Just tell me what you want done and I'll start fixing it up for you.”

“This is a complete about face from your earlier position on the school. Why the change of heart,
Tomas?”

“Let's just say that as a kid, I wanted to learn the piano and never got the chance, and let it go at that.”

She nodded. “I see. Well-while it's commendable that you want to ensure that kids get an opportunity
you missed out on, if you don't mind my asking once again...what's in it for you, Tomas? You're a
businessman, and I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but charity doesn't seem to be your
thing.”

“I'm trying to change my image.”

“By becoming involved in the Arts?” she asked, trying to pin him down.

“No. Not exactly.” He looked very uncomfortable. “I thought maybe if you and I were seen together,
folks might think I was turning over a new leaf.”

“Are you? Are you turning over a new leaf?”

“No,” he said, baldly. “But it would be good for business if it looked like I was becoming an upstanding
member of the community.” He rubbed his neck. “I have plans, Sera, big plans, But they'll never come if
I don't clean up my act. You might say I've got some rough edges that need smoothin'. I thought maybe
you could do that for me.”

“Some rough edge smoothin',” she said mimicking his rough manner of speech. “I see. How do you
suggest I accomplish this?”

“Well...I thought maybe some of your class might rub off on me if we...uh...dated. I'd take you out,
show you off, go to nice restaurants for dinners. We'd see the occasional movie. And, whenever either
one of us needed to attend a public function, we'd be there for each other. I want you to bring me up, but
I don't want to bring you down. I want everyone in town to think that you're with me, that we're a
couple. Behind closed doors is another matter. Bluntly put, going to bed with me isn't part of the deal.”

“I'm sorry. I have a problem with that.”

“That's okay. I understand. A man like me...a lady like you...I knew it'd never work. Don't worry, I'll
still work on the mansion, fix it up for the school, even without you agreeing.”

Tomas certainly had his own brand of integrity!

Did she?

In principle, she didn't approve of trying to hoodwink people. But first and foremost, she was a practical
woman, and she recognized that sometimes principles must be stretched for the sake of the greater good.
The school was the greater good.

“No, Tomas, that's not my problem. I was referring to the behind closed doors aspect of the
arrangement. Frankly, I need physical release. No sentiment. No romance. No pledges of undying
devotion. Just sex. I believe you're the man for the job.”

Soapsuds floated all around them. It was with some concern that Seraphina looked at the dish dryer.
“You should probably close your mouth before you swallow a detergent bubble, Tomas.”

“Hell, woman! Are all missionaries straight-talkers like you?”

“We are not all alike.”

Any more than men with pony tales and earrings and two-day beards are all alike, she reminded herself.

When his mouth snapped shut, she said, “You see, Tomas, one should never judge a book by its cover.
I made that mistake with you when we first met. Don't make that mistake with me now.”

She drew her shoulders back. “Why don't we both give it some thought? After all, I wouldn't want to
take advantage of you when we're behind closed doors,” she said with a wink. “Let me know your
decision-say, Monday? Unless you don't normally have sex on Monday? Unless you're only a Saturday

night sort of lover?”

“No, I'm pretty versatile; I can usually squeeze sex in on weekday nights too.”

Slapping the dishtowel down on the counter, her dinner guest headed for the door.

Hand on the knob, he turned back around. “What was his name?”

She blinked in confusion. “Whose name?” she asked, befuddled by the question.

“Your husband. You've never mentioned him by name.”

The feeling swamped her. It came and went in waves, rolling over her when she least expected it. It
didn't only happen when she talked about him; sometimes it would hit her from someplace in left field.
Practicing a piece of music at the piano or taking out the garbage or getting ready to climb into bed and it
would just be there, waiting for her. Sometimes she would push through it; other times she would let it
engulf her until she felt as though she was drowning in a sea of...in a sea of...

Nothingness.

Those were the worst times. She felt like such an imposter then.

“Matt,” she said, quietly. “My husband's name was Matt. He was such a good man. Too good, really.”

“I'm a pretty good listener...you know...if you ever want to talk about him.”

“Thanks for the offer, Tomas, but I think we should keep this arrangement superficial. I need sex; you
need to change this town's perception of you. Why don't we just let it go at that?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was Monday morning, and at Ruiz Construction Tomas sat slouched over his desk, pretending to
pour over his blueprints. But no matter how hard he stared at his drawings, no matter how many times he
picked up his pencil, he couldn't concentrate enough to make the changes he knew had to be made in the
plans. Sera's carelessly flung, ‘Why don't we give it some thought?’ kept interfering with his
concentration.

He was giving it-'it’ being having a sexual relationship with Sera -some thought, all right. Plenty of
thought. Hell, fucking Sera was all he was thinking about.

Sera wanted to have sex. Period.

He wanted to have sex with Sera. Period.

The way Tomas saw it, the placement of that punctuation mark was one of those defining moments in a
man's life. Suddenly, pretending to be a couple to trick the good folks of Fenton was taking on a
secondary importance to actually being a couple for real. Scary.

Not the part about taking Sera to bed. That wasn't scary. That was easy. He knew he could satisfy her
sexually. It was all the rest of the junk that had him worried. Beyond mind-blowing sex, what?

They had nothing in common.

Sera was a professional, a teacher with a college degree; his yearly income was well over six figures, but
in terms of outlook, he was strictly a blue-collar hard hat.

She'd grown up in a loving family, with parents who were ministers; he'd been a neglected street kid.

She was cultured; he was ... good with his hands.

As much as Tomas wanted to, he knew he couldn't change the past. He couldn't change who he was
inside, either. It was the future that had to concern him now. He was determined, to the point of being
driven, to make something meaningful out of his life. Being seen with Sera would help him accomplish his
goals, but at what price to her?

This arrangement would do dirt to her good name, make her a target for town gossip. He knew how that
went; he'd been the brunt of town gossip all of his life. He had thick skin; he could take the crap dished
out. Sera's skin was delicate and fine. The gossip would hurt her and the last thing he wanted to do was
hurt Sera. She'd already been hurt enough for a lifetime.

He couldn't even imagine loving someone the way she must have loved her husband and then lose him to
disease. Sometimes, Tomas thought, he was lucky to have never loved anyone like that.

Matt. Her husband's name was Matt. Probably short for Matthew. Nice name. It probably hurt her too
much to say it, to mention him in conversation, and that's why she didn't. Not at all. As in never.

He wouldn't mind if she talked about him. Tomas meant what he said. He was a good listener. Sera
needed to talk to someone about her husband, needed to get those grieving tears out.

He knew from Myra that Sera had it damn rough in India. He couldn't say he was any too comfortable
around weepy women-what guy was?-but the way he looked at it, better he lend her a shoulder than
have her keep all that sad crap pent up inside. Sometimes just being there for someone was enough; the
words didn't really matter. A good thing, since he'd never been too good with words.

'Course, offering comfort might be construed as a breach in their superficiality bylaws. Might even lead
to friendship. Couldn't have something like friendship lousing up the sex.

A construction worker poked his head inside the office door. “Hey, boss! The new hydraulic lifts aren't
worth crap.”

“Yeah, and I'm not doing a thing about ‘em until I handle the defective girder problem,” Tomas shot
back, temper flying. “What do I look like, a fuckin’ octopus?”

“Anything you say,” said the hardhat, backing out the trailer door fast. “I was only passing along the
information.”

Yep, all in all, his day had been a royal pain in the posterior.

Then Myra walked in.

He didn't look up from the blueprint. “I already made coffee.”

“I'm fine. Thanks for inquiring.” She sat down heavily behind her desk.

Tomas belatedly remembered his manners. “Sorry,” he said glumly. “How was your weekend?”

“No complaints. Yours?”

“Had dinner over to the Monroe place.”

Myra nodded. “It's a step in the right direction, Tommie.”

“S'pose so.”

Sera had only kissed him like that because she was lonely. Grief did that sometimes. A person in pain
would reach out to anyone. He understood that she didn't really want him; she wanted her dead husband.

Tomas lifted the seat of his jeans up off the chair. “I'm going out, Myra.”

“When will you be coming back to the trailer?”

“I don't know.” He'd never been able to keep anything from Myra, and he wasn't about to try now. “A
while back, a rock got chucked through a window over at the Monroe place. The dealers that were
misplaced from the house are looking to cause trouble, and Sera is caught in the middle. I think my
presence at the house 24/7 might get them to think twice about trying something again. If that doesn't
work-at least they'll have the right target. “

She digested that piece of information. “Tommie, those dealers have an ax to grind, don't you let ‘em
grind it on you.”

“Don't worry about me, cupcake. You know I can take care of myself. And I'll take care of Sera, too.”

Myra gave him one of her special and seldom seen looks. It was an expression that fell someplace
between wanting to give him a big sloppy kiss on the forehead and wanting to kick his butt all over town
with one of her extra-wide orthopedic shoes. Either way, the affection came through pure and strong.

“Ya know somethin’ , Tommie Ruiz?

“What's that, Myra?”

She wiped at her streaming mascara, then blew her nose hard into a tissue that had seen better days.
“Never mind.”

Sometimes Myra had trouble verbalizing her deeper emotions. And that was okay. She didn't have to.
He understood. “Me too, sugarpie.”

He bent, kissed Myra's cheek, then straightened back up before she slapped him upside the head.

With a hoarseness that had nothing to do with all those smokes she was still sneaking behind his back,
she said, “Go on. Get the hell outta here. Go do what you hafta do.”

* * * *

Sera hurried up the path to the back porch, a bag of groceries tucked under each arm, her gaze tracing a
yard-wide strip of freshly rototilled dirt on either side of the walk.

Someone had turned over the soil!

Someone had started the preparations for a garden while she'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to find
teachers for her school.

Unsuccessfully because she hadn't been able to hire any of the candidates she'd spent the day
interviewing. Not a one. As soon as the graduating music majors found out the available positions were
located in a dilapidated mansion on Fenton's Southside, they said no thanks.

Twenty interviews later, Calia Vasquez was still her only teacher.

How could she possibly open a conservatory of music with only one teacher?

Unless the mansion was renovated, and soon, come September, she'd be offering private instruction on
only two instruments: piano and violin.

Oh, she could play other instruments. She was proficient in the woodwinds: sax and oboe and clarinet.
Mediocre on the brasses: trumpet, French horn, trombone, and tuba. And because she could keep
count, she'd get by on percussion. But she wanted her students to have the very best. She didn't want to
shortchange them with a teacher who was merely passable in terms of ability.

The garden was a step in renovating the house into a school. Some people might say that a garden was
the very last step, in relation to all the rest of the work still to do at the mansion. Not her. She needed a
garden. It warmed her that the person who'd established the bed had taken her feelings into
consideration.

Sera followed the tilled border into her backyard. The wide strip of tilled loam connected to a large
circular area mounded in the center. The leisurely winding garden path led a visitor into the backyard in
an unhurried manner and made the mansion welcoming, approachable. She could picture the perennials
now!

And picturing them was all she'd do.

Plants were expensive and she'd need hundreds to fill the dug area. Where would she ever find the
additional money needed to fund the landscaping?

Somewhere! She'd find the cash somewhere. Like her mother always said, ‘Where there's a will,
Seraphina, there's a way'.

Growing-up, she must have heard that old-fashion saying about a million times. The homely cheered her
now, as did the memory of her gutsy mom who'd tackled problems bigger than a lack of funding in her
ministry.

Racing for the backstairs, brown grocery bags jiggling, Sera discovered that the man who'd dug the
garden had also repaired and painted the porch.

During her solitary dinner that night, she kept checking the back door expecting to see Tomas at the

screen. While washing the dishes in the kitchen sink, she listened for the sound of his footsteps. Finally,
because she was literally going crazy inside the house, she took the musical score she was composing
and went outside to wait for Tomas on the porch.

Around ten o'clock, she gave up the wait and went back inside in the house.

After showering, Sera changed into a lightweight summer nightgown, and moped her way to her
bedroom.

It was Monday, and Tomas wasn't going to come.

And neither was she.

* * * *

Sera removed the tack from her mouth. “Do you think the Julliard in New York got their start like this?”

Calia Vasquez's stabbed a tack into a poster and pounded both into a wooden utility pole. “I doubt it,”
she replied.

Her teacher took another tack out of her pocket. “Look at it this way-if the school doesn't work out
maybe Tomas Ruiz will give us jobs with his finish crew. What do you think?”

“I've seen the way you hold that hammer, Calia. Stick with the violin.”

Both teachers collapsed in a bout of slaphappy giggles. Exhaustion, that's what came of tacking up flyers
advertising the opening of the music schoo since dawn. Wherever there was a vacant telephone or street
pole on the Southside now hung a poster. Some shop owners had generously offered storefront windows
to display the homemade signs ... after the winsome Calia strong-armed them into doing the right thing for
Fenton's wouldbe child prodigies.

“Just about done here,” Sera said, pounding one last tack.

“Me too. If I never get this close to a telephone pole again, I'll die happy.”

When Calia stretched her arms above her head, her fashionable midriff blouse showed a wide expanse
of trim waist. “How's about I go get us a couple of sodas from Simpson's Variety across the street?”

“Anything cold sounds great.”

“You're on,” Calia called, already making her away across the busy city traffic.

The young man who had enrolled in five private violin classes a week, starting the first week the school
opened, met Calia at the door of the little mom and pop convenience store.

What was Enrico Cortez doing here? Sera wondered. Lately, everywhere Calia was, there was Enrico
too.

Sera forgot all about their seemingly coincidental meetings as she started getting her gear together. As
result, she wasn't paying attention to what was happening across the street at the store...until she looked
up again and saw Enrico make a wild gesture with a hand.

Calia was extraordinarily levelheaded, with a personality that could only be described as sunny and
upbeat, and now she looked about to cry.

Sera started paying closer attention to what was happening across the street. Calia was a very sweet
young woman and Enrico was a gang member, after all...

After a few minutes, Calia exited the store carrying two cans of soda. Without a glance in Enrico's
direction, she returned to where Sera waited.

“Let's drink our sodas on the park bench,” Calia said, obviously upset.

“All right,” Sera agreed. “There's a nice tree there to shade us.”

On the park bench, Sera took a seat beside Calia, who was wiping at her eyes. “I just don't understand
Enrico Cortez. He seems so nice and everything, and then, out of nowhere he morphs into this really
overbearing and obnoxious jerk.”

“What happened?”

“He said he doesn't like me wearing a shirt that shows my bellybutton. He says it draws attention to me
and gives men the wrong impression. He's my age, but he talks just like my father! He's been following
me too. Everywhere I go, he's there.”

Sera bit her lip. Looks like Calia had noticed Enrico's strange behavior too. “You mean, like a stalker?”

“Not exactly. More like he's my bodyguard or my chaperone. He's scaring off any guy who comes
close. Who says I even want my virtue protected!”

“The virtue part-is that what he said?”

“Not exactly. He said virgins shouldn't wear clothes that show off their bodies. He says only a man who
respects me should get to see my body. Do you believe how hopelessly dated he is?” Calia brushed her
thick black hair behind an ear. “What right does he have to tell me how I should dress? He's not my boy
friend! And even if he was my boyfriend, that wouldn't give him a say in my wardrobe!”

Calia undid the ends of her midriff blouse and tied it even higher on her torso. “There! That's what I think
about his fashion advice. It's only a bellybutton. All the girls at school wear shirts like this! You know
what I'm going to do? I'm getting my bellybutton pierced. That's what I'm going to do. See what he says
then!”

“Men!” Sera offered.

“Men!” Calia countered.

“But you don't think his reason for following you is...well...sinister?

Calia shook her head. “Enrico isn't like that. He's just hopelessly antiquated when it comes to women.
And it's so embarrassing that he could tell that I'm a virgin. That's not something I go around
broadcasting, not at my age!”

“But you're what—twenty-one?”

Calia sniffed. “Twenty-two!”

“Okay, twenty-two. There are plenty of women that age who are still virgins, Calia! Even older.”

There were even almost thirty-one year old virgins.

Technically, she supposed she wasn't a virgin any longer now that her hymen was gone...

Calia interrupted her thoughts to ask, “As an experienced woman, do you think it's corny that I'm
waiting for marriage before I go to bed with a man?”

Sera was a little uncomfortable. Calia was casting her in the light of an experienced woman and she was
no more experienced than her much younger teacher. After all, the only experience she'd had was with a
candle...

Until illness overtook him, she had never seen her husband nude, nor he her. On their wedding night,
Matt came to her bedrooms in his pajamas. At his gentle urging, she kept her nightgown in place as well.
They'd prayed together on their knees beside the bed before getting under the covers, at which point her
nightgown was raised only as far as her upper thighs, only enough to allow for penetration. Praying aloud,
her husband covered her body with his...

And stopped.

No thrust. Nothing...Matt couldn't continue.

While she remained silent, perfectly still, legs straight, arms down by her sides, devastated by what
hadn't happened, her husband had quickly withdrawn from her, leaving her bed for his own bedroom.
The next day, and for six months afterwards, he had assigned himself penance.

He'd never tried to consummate the marriage again.

She'd loved her husband and he'd loved her, but only as a brother and sister love one another.

She'd needed more. She'd needed sex. But because of the very real pain it caused Matt to succumb to
carnality, it was a need she'd kept hidden. She'd learned to live with her hunger for sex, for the need
belonged solely to her and had nothing to do with her husband or their marriage.

Oh, she supposed she could've knocked on his bedroom door. Matt would not have turned her
away-her husband was not a cruel man. But she never made that long trip down the hall. What woman
wants to think of herself as something that must be withstood? As a marital duty? As an occasion of sin?

Sera had only herself to blame. She went into the marriage with eyes wide open. Sex was not part of
their agreement. Matt told her he was a celibate, only she hadn't taken him at his word.

Her husband was a good man who had lived his whole life as an austere and pious ascetic, devoted
totally to his mission. In embracing a higher plane of spirituality, her husband had forsaken embracing
another human being. In releasing his soul from the bondage of his body to seek a more perfect union
with the Divine, her husband eschewed corporal pleasures, sex being one of those pleasures.

Desperate to stay on in India after the deaths of her parents, she'd begged him, a fellow missionary, to
marry her, and in pity, he had.

After the vows were said, he'd still wanted a platonic relationship. He'd suffered greatly for that one
aborted trip to her bed. In five years, he had never returned to her bed and their marriage had remained
unconsummated. It was only due to a candle that technically, she was no longer a virgin.

Sera couldn't tell her young and idealistic teacher any of that! She'd never discussed her marriage with
anyone!

“I think every woman has to make up her own mind when it's right for her to become intimate with a
man,” Sera told Calia instead.

“I've made up mind! I'm saving myself for my husband. I want my wedding night to be the first time. I
want it to mean something.”

“It will, Calia. You'll find a man who loves you, who would willingly give up anything and everything for
you. And you'll love him so much in return that you'd do the same.”

“It's just that...I don't want Enrico thinking there haven't been opportunities, because there have been
opportunities. Or that I'm this completely innocent baby. There have been guys, I just haven't gone all the
way with them.” Calia sighed. “I haven't gone any of the way with them. Nothing past kisses.”

“Kissing is good-”

“I've always let guys know, when things start getting serious, that the answer is going to be, no.” Calia
turned to Sera, diamonds sparkling in her eyes. “Enrico is awfully cute, don't you think?”

“He's a very good-looking young man.”

“He's intelligent too. A natural leader. He could go places.”

“I'm sure he will, when he's ready.”

Calia undid the knot in her shirt and let the tails cover her tummy. “I suppose he's right; a woman
walking around the Southside has to be a little more cautious than a woman walking around a college
campus. This is the real world, not some ivy tower in academia.”

“Enrico certainly seems to care about your safety. Caring is an admirable trait in a man.”

“It is, isn't it?” Calia picked up her bag; her expression was dreamy. “Enrico is so much more mature
than the college guys I've dated. He's probably had scads of women. He'd never be interested in a
know-nothing virgin like me. I'd only bore him. And when he found out the answer is no, he'd lose
interest, just like all those college frat house guys lost interest. No one respects a woman's right to wait
any more.” She got out her car keys. “I'm going home now, Sera. Thanks for listening.”

Sera drove home too.

Tomas was waiting for her on the driveway when she pulled in. He was one day too late.

Although he had considered her counter offer of sex, and had obviously decided against it, she was still

glad to see him. After all, since he hadn't visited her on Monday, she had yet to tell him how grateful she
was for all the work he'd done on the house.

“Tomas, I just want to say thank you for everything you've done-”

He waved aside her thanks, then grabbed the supplies out of her arms. “Where were you today?”

Booting the car door closed behind her, he followed her up the stairs into the porch. “I tried calling a
coupla times and got no answer.”

“I was canvassing the Southside for new students,” she told him as he opened the screen door for her.

After setting the supplies on the kitchen counter, he turned to her. “Find some?”

“No.”

“I'll have Myra scout around for you.”

“Myra?”

“My office manager. It's sort of her ... um ... hobby to find out things like that about people. Like, for
instance, whether or not they'd be interested in taking music lessons “

“How would she find out something like that?”

“Basically, though a combination of brow beating and bullying. It works every time. At least it does with
me.” He sighed. “Myra is the closest thing I have to a family. When my old man took off, she sorta took
me in. She does that with a lot of strays. Nothing official, ‘cause she doesn't do official and neither do I.
She's the toughest woman I ever had the pleasure of knowing. She's been with me from the beginning of
Ruiz Construction, even when I couldn't afford to pay her.”

“What a wonderful woman to have so much faith in you!”

“She's something all right.”

He looked at her like a little boy who has something to say but is too shy to speak up. When he finally
did speak up, he couldn't seem to look up; Tomas's eyes stayed glued to his work boots.

He shuffled his feet. “I'd like you to meet Myra, and then I'd like to start showing you around. You
know, showing you off.”

Confused, and yes, hurt too, she said, “When you didn't visit me on Monday I assumed our agreement
was off.”

“It's not off. You told me to think about it and I have.” He seemed to brace himself as he looked into her
eyes. “I was a no-show on Monday because I decided against us having sex. Sera, you're too nice for
me.”

“What!” she exploded.

“I know you have your womanly needs, the same as a man has his, but I just can't go there with you.

Not that way.”

Really, she should wear a sign. She could change a bad boy's reputation from sizzle to fizzle overnight.
What on earth was wrong with her?

“I see,” she said, keeping her pride even as she kissed her fantasized sexual adventuring good-bye.

“I don't think you do see.” Tomas rubbed the back of his neck. “The project I'm working on right now is
a small condo complex in downtown Fenton. Used to be a run-down warehouse. I bought it for
practically nothing, and rather than tear it down, I've been rehabbing it. It's a beautiful piece of property,
right on the river. The building is just about completed and later on this week various real estate agents
will be giving guided tours through the building, showing display units to prospective buyers. Because it's
a luxury complex, all the buyers are wealthy, many are influential in Fenton. Those are just the type of
folks I want to have see us together.”

“That's fine, Tomas-

“Wait a minute! Let me spit all of this out before I lose my nerve.”

“I'm sorry for interrupting. Please continue.”

“See! Like that. That's exactly what I mean. You know how to smooth out the tricky bumps in
conversation. There's gonna be social occasions that I'll have to attend because they translate into
business opportunities. But I get in my own way at formal affairs. Frankly, I suck at the social stuff. I'm
outclassed at those kinds of stuffed shirt events and I know it, so my back goes up, and it just makes
everything worse.

“Sera, you've got class coming out the...coming out the...uh...See what I mean? I get stuck on those
sorts of conversational bumps. That's why I want you with me, at my side, when I meet those people. I
need you to give me a swift kick in the pants when I say or do something that's street.”

“I don't know about the pant kicking part but I'll gladly attend those functions with you.”

“Thanks. But see, here's the thing: I don't want to introduce you to those folks as my date because
everybody knows what being my date comes down to.”

Her lips quivered. Tomas was such a big and tough man, yet he looked absolutely distraught. “I presume
it comes down to sex, Tomas.” Those lucky women.

“Well, yeah. But I don't want folks thinking that way about you. I don't want anyone disrespecting you
like that. Which is why I want to introduce you to those stuffed shirts as my wife.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

All muy suave, Tomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue velvet box. With a snap of his
finger, he released the top to show her the glittering diamond ring inside, the one he'd spent all day
yesterday selecting.

“Starting today, I want you to wear this.”

He hadn't set out to buy a ring the day before, which was the Monday he no-showed over at the
mansion. It wasn't like his head popped off the pillow that morning and he said to himself, ‘Hmm. Nice
day to get engaged'.

Nope, it didn't happen like that. He got up out of bed, hit the can, and got dressed, just like usual.
Somehow, though, after flushing and brushing, instead of going down to the site, he found himself
wandering around Fenton's jeweler's district. Cruising down the sidewalk, looking in the plate glass
windows, just your average Latino guey checking out the 14ct.gold merchandize. Which was way
bizarre, since he didn't go in for rings and watches and such. The silver hoops in his ears were all the
adornment he wore.

When he happened upon the diamond rings in the display case, that's when the random thought occurred
to him that buying Sera an engagement ring was the right thing to do, considering the circumstances and
everything.

Sera was a nice respectable lady, and he didn't want her to lose any of that respect, especially not in the
eyes of the parents whose kids she wanted to teach. By teaming up with him there was the very real
possibility that Sera's good name would be dragged through the mud. It was some pretty selfish thinking
on his part to just kiss off her reputation that way.

Then he thought-Why should her good name be sacrificed when there was something he could do about
saving it?

Everyone was gonna think he was screwing the missionary lady, whether he was or not, and the good
people of Fenton would think less of Sera for allowing it. He could save Sera's reputation by making their
association legal, by asking her to marry him. Not that he was a real catch in the marriage market or
anything, and not that folks wouldn't think Sera needed to have her head examined for hitching up with
him, but at least if they were married, Sera would get to keep her honor, her virtue, in tact.

Old-fashioned words those, honor and virtue. But those two words came to mind when he thought of
Sera.

Tomas wanted Sera, and the widow-lady needed sex. Sounded like the ideal combination.

Only it wasn't. And not because being thought a piece of meat offended him. Being considered a cock
first, a man second, didn't make him feel cheap or sordid or used. He'd been in Sera's position himself
once or twice. There'd been times when he'd needed the comfort of a female body and the woman
attached to that body got lost in the need. It wasn't something he was proud of, but there it was. So-as
unflattering as it was to be wanted only for his package, he understood.

Understood, but he still wasn't having sex with her.

His ego just couldn't stand up to the comparison to her dead husband.

If Tomas was a gambling man, his bet was that Sera had been a virgin before marriage. Which meant her
experience was limited to one man. Sera had loved Matt, and so naturally the sex...the lovemaking...had
meant everything to her.

Sera didn't love him, and so it wouldn't be that way for her with him. It wouldn't be special like that.

Tomas wanted special. And if it couldn't be special, at least their association could be honorable.

Which is why he went shopping for the engagement ring.

Then he got tied up at the site and couldn't make it over to her place on Monday night to explain. No
wonder why Sera thought he'd changed his mind.

But he had the ring, and that had to mean something.

He didn't want one of those huge-ass, butt-ugly, ostentatious Rock of Gibraltar type of stones. He
wanted something that was perfect, no flaws, and of a respectable size. Just like Sera. He wanted
tasteful, because Sera was tasteful.

Did she like it?

He couldn't tell.

She said slowly, sounding distant, “I know you want to improve your playboy image in town, but isn't
this move rather drastic?”

Figuring Sera for a real stickler when it came to slippery emotions like love, he figured she'd take him to
task for presenting marriage as a business proposition. He had to say he was surprised when she didn't
use that line of reasoning.

“It wouldn't have to be forever, Sera. Just until we both get what we want. And the marriage could even
be annulled, if that's what you wanted. Naturally, we wouldn't sleep together-”

“No! No annulment.”

“Okay. Then a divorce.”

“How will we explain why we're going our separate ways?”

“People split up all the time,” he countered.

“Usually, there's a very good and compelling reason to dissolve a marriage.”

“Times get tough, and people walk. Say I cheated. Everyone in this town will believe that.”

She shook her head. “I could never lie like that.”

“Whose says it would be a lie?”

“You're not a cheat, Tomas. If you make a vow of faithfulness, you'll keep it. And besides, why would I
demean you that way to the very people you're trying so hard to impress? Why would I agree to marry
you, with the intention of helping you get what you want, only to tear you down? You would never do
something like that to me.

“Furthermore, though I believe that there are some people who walk away from marriage when times
get tough, I don't believe you ever would. You're a fighter, Tomas, not a quitter. You take your
responsibilities seriously. Don't try to convince me otherwise. “

His heart clutched. Why did she have that kind of faith in him, that kind of confidence? Hadn't she heard
the gossip? Didn't she know what kind of man he was?

Tomas hung his head, shamed by her groundless trust. Perversely, though, he wanted to be that man she
thought he was.

He couldn't bring himself to defend himself, to set her mind at ease, to tell her that he would never cheat
on her. Instead, he said, “I figured it was just something believable you could say.”

“You figured wrong.”

How come faith hurt?

Pained by her trust, he rasped, “Listen, Sera. I can't let you live at the mansion by yourself, not until the
riverfront is safe. And I can't continue to go on sleeping in my truck down the hill from the house. It's
murder on my back.”

“You've been sleeping in your truck?”

“Every night.”

“But why?”

Time for some hard reality. Time for Sera to take off those rose-colored glasses of hers and face some
ugly facts. “Did you know that dealers worked out of the Monroe mansion right up to the day that you
moved in?”

“Dealers?” she cried, voice horror-tinged. “No! Of course I didn't know! Is that why you wanted me
out the house? Were you trying to protect me from drug dealers?”

“It had a little something to do with it, yeah. The dealers are pissed that you disrupted their operation. A
widow living alone makes an easy target. The thing to do is make you less vulnerable, and like all bullies,
the dealers will quit harassing you.”

“I can't believe someone wants to harm me.”

Okay, this was way too much reality. “Honey, listen to me. It's me the dealers want, not you. I'm the one
who owns the mansion. I'm the one who's forcing them out. If you don't want to marry me, I suggest you
move out of the house, only for a short time-”

“I'm staying!”

“I figured you'd say that. Then, there's no other way. Until the dealers are caught, you're under
twenty-hour surveillance.”

“By the police?”

Tomas laughed. “For years, the cops have turned a blind eye to what's going on in the Southside. Why
do you think Anderson sold out to me?”

He answered his own question. “Because every attempt Anderson made to survey the package of land

was sabotaged. That won't happen with me. Unlike Anderson, I fight dirty. I grew up on these streets
and I know how these little fuckers-excuse my language—think. I'm big and I'm a bad-ass, and there
ain't a one of them wants to mess with me directly. I'll have those dope boys pissin’ themselves if they
give me or anyone connected with me a hard time. Ain't no cokehead, ain't no junkie, neither, gonna pull
no crap while I'm around.

“And I intend to be around. I'm building million dollar estate homes on this parcel of land, whether the
dealers like it or not. They wanna tangle, we're on.”

“Tomas, maybe I should leave the mansion. You could get hurt-”

“You don't think I'm a quitter, and I'll return the favor; you ain't no quitter either, Sera Norris. Marry
me.”

“Oh Tomas, I don't-”

“It's only a matter of time before the dealers wise up and realize they have to go someplace else, crawl
under some other rock. Right now, they’ re not in the mindset; they're pushing back. They can't win,
though. They're scum, and they're getting the hell out of this neighborhood, out of the Southside, out of
Fenton too. Until that happens, I'm your 24/7 surveillance. And I can't do that unless I move in with you
and I can't do that unless we're married. See?”

She bit her lip. “This is all so wrong!”

“This is only a temporary arrangement, just so folks don't get the wrong impression about you. I don't
want anyone thinking you're just another one of my good-time women. If we shack up together, if you're
viewed as one of my lays, that will defeat the whole purpose of our original agreement.

“Bottom line, I won't have you left wide open for ridicule in this town. And to show my appreciation for
helping me out, the mansion will be my wedding gift to you.”

“You'll give me the house?”

“That's what I said.”

“No wedding ring, no deal?”

“Yes,” he said tightly.

“The ring is beautiful.” She held out her work-chapped hand. “Would you put it on my finger, Tomas?”

“I'd be proud to.”

The ring looked good. Damn good. A little too good. Liking the way it looked just a little too much, he
was about to beat a hasty retreat out the door when he heard a rumble coming up the driveway.

Sera raced for the door. “Tomas, there's a pickup truck backing into the backyard.”

“We better go see,” he replied.

A bearded man jumped out of the truck and hollered, “Where do you want the flowers, boss?”

“Flowers? Boss? What's going on, Tomas?”

“You'll see.” He pointed to the excavation work he'd done. “Put the flowers over there, Hank. We'll let
the lady decide which plant goes where.”

Sera looked at the plants, then turned back to him. “All those flowers are for me?”

“You wanted a garden. You got a garden.”

“But so many plants-”

“I'm wooing you.”

“Woo ... woo, wooing? Like a train?”

“No, sweetheart. Courtship wooing.” He pulled on his hoop earring. “A lady should get a few flowers
when she's been proposed to.”

“But there's hundreds, maybe thousands, of flowers out there.”

“I don't woo in a small way, Sera.”

Throwing her hands up in the air, she cried, “I give up. I absolutely give up. You are a rogue, sir, and I
cannot take you seriously.”

Tomas said, “I'll just go get that license now,” and got the hell outta there fast.

* * * *

Three days later, they were married before a bored Justice of the Peace.

When the dude said, ‘You may kiss your bride,’ Tomas needed no further persuading. Though he pulled
out of the kiss real quick. Not because he wanted to, because he didn't want to, he could have gone on
kissing Sera's soft, clinging lips for hours.

Sera's eyes were slumberous; her mouth was giving; her cheeks were flushed. She was the prettiest,
nicest, sweetest woman he'd ever kissed and he wanted her, but he also needed to act responsibly
toward her. Annulment, not bed, was where his thoughts were at. No wedding night consummation for
them.

Too bad his dick had other plans.

He was spike-hard, a fact Sera would catch onto if she rubbed her belly against the bulge in his best
black jeans. Which was why he pulled out of the kiss.

His lady-bride looked enchanting, other worldly, in the simple garland of wildflowers she'd woven in her
hair. He didn't know if he could keep his hands off her, he only knew he had to keep his hands off her...

For all Sera's natural loveliness, he would have liked her dressed up like a real bride today. Women
went in for that sort of thing. But there'd been no altar. No flowers. No music. Their wedding was a civil

ceremony all the way. That was how Sera had wanted things done.

It wasn't how he wanted things done. No how, no way. Maybe because of his ugly and unstable
childhood, he liked beauty and tradition, and even a little pomp and circumstance. He would have liked
nothing better than for his pretty Sera to walk towards him down the center aisle of a church, the scent of
incense in the air. He would have liked a religious ceremony. The church's denomination didn't matter,
just so long as the man saying the words was a man of God.

Someone's God. Anyone's God. Sera's God!

Whatever happened to the Big Guy she used to work for, anyway? Wasn't Sera a former missionary?

Instead of the Big Guy's representative, they got some big chump JP checking his watch to make sure he
didn't run over his damn coffee break.

Tomas told Sera he planned on keeping this marriage platonic. And that was true, but what was equally
true was that he took his vows seriously.

To a man whose former romantic commitments lasted no longer than his attention span, marriage, even a
temporary marriage, was a weighty venture. Sticking with someone longer than a one-night stand was
hard to do these days-

Or maybe, it had always been hard. Only now-a-days people went on Oprah and bitched about it, he
didn't know which.

What he did know was this: Staying with a woman for longer than a night scared the hell outta him.
Actually living with a woman made him tremble in fear. Deep down deep, he was afraid he didn't know
how to love. At least not the right way, the right kind of love.

Tomas snuck a look at his blushing bride who was talking with Roxanne and Lou, their two witnesses,
and his worry went away.

If love could be learned, if permanence could be taught, he'd just married a fine teacher. No two ways
about it, Sera knew how to love. And that was as in forever.

Not that a street punk like Tomas Ruiz deserved a lifetime warranty from a woman like Seraphina
Norris. How could he, when she was so far above him?

His bride resembled a golden-hair angel, the unreachable kind that decorated the top of Christmas trees.

Other people's Christmas trees, never his.

Oh, yeah, his bride was beautiful. And way out of his reach.

But wedding frills or not, in the right here and now, they were legally married. And it didn't feel half-bad.
Truthfully, he was walking up on a big white puffy cloud. He only wished his bride were up there walking
with him.

After thanking Rox and Lou, he turned to his bride, “Ready to leave, sweetheart?”

Sera nodded.

He nodded too, both of them at a loss for words.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

What were the chances of any one woman marrying two men, both of who didn't want to sleep with
her?

In her case, the chances were one hundred percent.

The more she got to know Tomas Ruiz, the better she liked him, and he was not a man a woman like her
should ever, ever like. And loving him would certainly not be heart-healthy.

Taking him to her bed, however, was another thing entirely. That would do her heart a whole heck of a
lot of good.

What was this marriage really all about? What was he all about? There had to be more to Tomas Ruiz's
proposal, to the marriage, to the man, himself, than appeared on the surface. There just had to be!

From the first day she met him, she'd felt that Tomas had a purpose, a calling. What on earth was it?

It had to be more than his becoming a billionaire before his thirtieth birthday, Sera thought as she walked
through the condo site where Tomas had suggested they meet later on that day.

What a confusing place a construction site was! There were hardhats rushing every which way, yelling at
other hardhats in what sounded like a foreign language. The noise level was incredible. And the dirt! The
site was a dust bowl in some places, a mud hole in others.

Wanting to look nice when Tomas introduced her to Myra, Sera hadn't changed after the wedding. She
was still wearing her best outfit: a pastel print dress with a large lace collar and matching white pumps.
This past spring, she'd visited the dress twice a week at the discount department store, not purchasing it
until the end of season clearance sale.

Her bridal finery was now dirt-splattered.

It was only a dress, she thought, surveying the damage.

Her glance dropped to her hopelessly muddy feet.

And her best pair of shoes.

So much for looking bride-like, Sera conceded, knocking on the door of the construction trailer.

A woman in purple lame answered. “Yeah?”

“Er ... maybe this isn't the right place.”

“We'll never know, will we, if you don't tell me who you're looking for.”

“I'm Seraphina Norris. I mean, Seraphina Ruiz. Tomas is expecting me.”

“Expecting you to do what?”

Sera blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The woman waved her inside. “Just funning you. Tomas warned me you were the serious type. I heard
you sing, you know. Over to the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Aha! You must be Myra,” Sera said, climbing the metal stairs. “I've heard so much about-

The sentence went unfinished. Sera stumbled on the last step and the heel of her shoe caught and broke.
“Drat! That's the reason these shoes were in the half-price bin!”

“Quality shows in shoes and men, dearie. Looks like you got better taste in men. Tomas is a real gem.
One in a million.” Myra lowered her voice. “Don't tell him I said so. Promise?”

“Oh, I won't,” Sera said, kicking free of her broken pumps, and hobbling inside the trailer.

Myra took in Sera's soiled dress. “The boss didn't tell you to wear your worst clothes, did he? Wait ‘til I
get my hands on him!”

She hollered towards the back of the trailer. “Tomas Ruiz, get your inconsiderate butt out here, pronto.
Your wife is here to see you.”

Tomas came rushing out from a back room. “Sera! You walked here alone? I told you I'd escort you
from the gate.”

“Yeah, and you should've too,” Myra yelled, sending shooting daggers at her new husband. “Look at
her!”

Sera didn't know what to do. According to Tomas, Myra and he had a warm and loving relationship. In
the space of one minute, she'd wrecked everything. Why hadn't she called him on her cell phone from the
gate like he told her to do?

“It's nothing, really. My dress is just a little dusty. It will wash out,” Sera said quickly, trying to patch
things up between Tomas and the woman who meant so much to him.

“Sorry, Sera. I should've warned you about the dirt at the site.”

Myra folded her arms over her chest. “Her shoe's broken too.”

“How's the weather today, Myra? Should I apologize for that too?”

“Don't be a smart ass,” Myra grumbled, heading for the trailer door. “Nice meetin’ you, Sera. I'll be
leaving you two alone now.”

Tomas gave her a fond wave. “It'll be tough managing without you-”

Ignoring her boss, Myra shuffled out the door.

“My. That certainly went well,” Sera said, barely suppressing a nervous giggle when the door slammed.

“Yeah, it did. Myra liked you, I could tell. She's not normally that pleasant.”

Sera strolled around the trailer's interior. “I liked her too. And your crew seemed like a happy group.
Because of the noise, I couldn't understand their calls, but they certainly smiled and gestured at me
enough.”

Tomas covered his face with both hands. “Next time, you call at the gate and wait for me to come get
you. Hear?”

With a non-committal shrug, Sera went to investigate a grouping of cardboard buildings, made in
miniature scale. “What this, Tomas?”

“Nothing,” her new husband replied, racing over and drawing a cover over the display.

“But it looks like an architectural model. It can't just be nothing. Tell me about it.”

“Just something I was playing around with.”

He led her away. “Seraphina, you'll need to change out of that dress before I show you the site. I bought
you a pair of jeans and a top.”

She bit her lip in excitement. “Jeans?”

“Yep.”

He sauntered down the trailer's abbreviated hall to a built-in wardrobe, returning with two folded
garments. He handed both items to her. “Leave your shoes with me and I'll fix the heel.”

Sera kicked off her remaining shoe. “Where would you like me to change?”

He pointed to the rear of the trailer. “Bedroom's down there. It's the room that looks like a closet stuffed
with a bed.”

She smiled at his description. In the cramped trailer, Tomas looked positively immense. His wide
shoulders spanned the walls, and he had to slouch so that his head wouldn't whack the ceiling.

She turned to go. “I'll just be a sec.”

“Sera?”

“Yes?” She kept walking.

“Leave off the bra.”

A shiver of arousal ran up her spine. “Yes. Of course.”

“No panties or stockings, either. I want you bare underneath your clothes. And Sera-take down your
hair.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The black jeans fit too snugly around her rear end.

Naturally.

The jersey was a tank top in a soft white cotton, and was far too large.

Naturally.

She had never worn anything like either before.

As she faced the mirror, Sera saw that her nipples, unusually large considering how lacking she was on
top, stuck out. When she turned to the side, most of her small breasts were boldly exposed, except for
the elongated pink tips. The tank was so loose that unless she stood up very straight, shoulders back,
there was the very real chance she'd fall right out.

Of course, with erect posture the shape and size...and excitement...of her breasts were all too readily
apparent under the thin white cotton. Either way, she lost her modesty.

She didn't care. She was almost painfully aroused by the element of danger, by her own wanton
appearance in the mirror.

In the new clothes and with her hair free, she looked different. Younger, hipper, like a ruca.

Without underwear, she felt the fluidity of her body each and every time she moved; when she left the
mirror, and moved to the door, her breasts shifted and her tightened nipples rubbed against the soft
cotton. With each step, the tight jeans abraded the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs. Conscious of
the inseam pressing into her vagina, excited by how the rough new denim scraped her clitoris, her hips
began to roll as she approached her new husband. Amazing what clothes-or the lack thereof-could do
for a woman's sex drive.

Hers had always been strong. Though, because of her background, it remained an untapped resource.

Tomas’ eyes darkened, going from dark brown to black, when he saw her. His lids hooded, his gaze
lingering in a hot caress, when he said, “My, my. I guess we'll be using the private entrance to the condo
today.”

“But the open house! Didn't you want me to meet your prospective clients?”

“ I don't think it's a good idea if any of those stuffed shirts saw my wife looking so sexy.” He stroked
along her bare arm and she trembled.

“I could wear one of your jackets,” she suggested.

“Cover up your gorgeous shape with a jacket? No way, baby. Business will just have to wait for another
time. Your showing of the condo is gonna be strictly private.”

* * * *

“Oh, Tomas!” his bride gasped, facing him as they rode the freight elevator up to the roof. “I can't

believe this building was once an old warehouse! I've never seen anything so spectacular.”

He had. Sera was the most spectacular sight he'd ever seen.

Slouched against the elevator's metal side, two floors away from the rooftop luxury suite, his burning
eyes fixed on the two sharp points sticking out from beneath his bride's white cotton top.

With his hands jammed into his pockets, so he wouldn't be tempted to fondle those frisky arrowheads,
Tomas used what little spit he had left in his mouth to say, “I'm glad you think so. Your opinion matters a
lot to me.”

Her slender arm swung in a graceful arc over her head, which lifted a breast up and out of the tank top's
low neckline. “I very much approve of salvaging old buildings like this one.”

And he very much approved of the way her round breast had popped out of that jersey. He was never
letting her hook on a bra again. And underpants-he'd have to think long and hard about those.

Sera gave new meaning to the perky definition. At the most, she was maybe a 34B, but every one of
those dainty inches counted. Could two nipples get any higher?

Tomas didn't think so.

As to her ass-those two lush fanny cheeks could only be described as mouthwatering. Just knowing her
pussy was tucked bare-assed into those tight jeans made him go a little nuts. Not that he needed any
additional reasons to lose his mind, because he sure as hell didn't, being that he was loco for her already.

His eyes rested on her crotch. The jeans were so tight he could also make out the indentation of her
cleft.

His bride was wet.

He didn't have to finger-fuck her to know it. Just looking at her told him her body needed release. And
she was getting it too. There were all sorts of inventive stuff he could do to make her come. He planned
on using every one of ‘em tonight.

Just because this marriage wasn't getting consummated, didn't mean his bride was missing out on the
wedding night jollies. Sera was getting her fireworks, all right, just not in the usual way.

He was gifted with his hands. His mouth was talented too, or so more than a few rapturous females had
told him. And he wasn't only talking about the pussy tricks he could do with his tongue.

He'd never been good with social small talk; bedroom conversation was a different story. Sex talk
primed a woman. The turn of a dirty phrase acted as a powerful aphrodisiac. Once a man mastered the
fine art of verbal foreplay he could get a woman to come even if he was standing across the room. Pretty
potent stuff, words.

His blushing bride was gonna scream tonight without him ever putting his cock inside her.

Not that he didn't want to put it to her, because he did want to put it to her, but he wasn't going to. He
just wasn't strong enough to put himself on the line like that.

He wanted Sera, and if Matt were a livin', breathin’ man, Tomas would have given him one hell of a
good run for his money in regards to competing for his bride's affections. That would have been the fair
and square way of resolving things. But it was tough racing against the memory of a ‘good man', tough to
outdistance the recollections of a ‘saint.’

Tomas Ruiz was no saint. As for being a good man...he was still working at it. Thank you, Jesus, for
second chances.

Tonight, there would be no second chances. Tonight, he'd do the right thing by his sweet bride or he'd
die trying. He just couldn't put the man part of himself inside Sera's body and risk bumping into the
memory of Matt there. To avoid the competition, he planned on doing things to Sera that no saintly
missionary man would ever think of doing.

“Push that jersey up now, honey, so I can see you,” he said lazily, so as not to frighten her.

Turning her on was his mission, not sending her running. He had to always remember that Sera wasn't
used to having a man like him get her off.

Her hand went to her throat. “Pardon?”

“We're married now, sweetheart, and I want to get a look at my bride.”

Her green eyes darted from one wall to the other. “In an elevator?”

“Why not? We're alone in the building and this elevator is private; the doors won't open until we reach
the roof unit.”

Damn! His blushing bride's worried glance found the high tech, high definition, surveillance equipment
overhead.

If there was a fly on the elevator wall, the camera lens would pick up the veins in its wings; the camera
was that good. If the fly farted, the listening devise would pick up the sound, then push up the volume so
that the fly fart came out sounding like hurricane force wind. Only the most sophisticated hardware was
installed in the building.

“Could you shut that thing off first, Tomas?” she asked, pointing overhead.

No, he could not. There was only one way in and out of the rooftop condo unit and that was through this
private elevator. The surveillance equipment that Sera wanted disarmed controlled the alarm system,
which in turn alerted his own private security team, a group of men that he'd gotten assembled for the
night.

He needed Sera in a secure place, because later on this evening he couldn't protect her; he would be
otherwise occupied. So tonight, ‘Rico and his gang members were patrolling the fenced in condo rather
than walking the grounds over at the mansion like they usually did. That's why the camera was staying on.
If ‘Rico heard the alarm go off, signifying that someone was breaking into the rooftop unit, Tomas’
instructions were for him and the gang to come running, knives drawn

Understanding Sera's reluctance-and her excitement—about taking it all off in front of the blinking light,
Tomas gave her the bogus story he had prepared in advance. He would still get what he wanted-namely,
Sera's safety-and his bride would still get what she wanted-namely, a titillating walk on the wild side.

“The only one who'll see the film in that camera is me.” He smiled reassuringly. “Consider the photos a
wedding gift to your husband.”

“I-”

“Do it, Sera.”

His modest bride raised the bottom of the tee-shirt.

As far as her bellybutton. If Tomas hadn't smelled her arousal, he would've called an end to it right then
and there; he wanted her pleasured not frightened. But he did smell her arousal; her womanly musk was
scenting the inside of his nostrils. Sera wanted this.

So did he. His balls were aching with how much he wanted this.

“Higher, honey,” he said. “Show me your pretty tits.”

Her eyes drifted back to his. She wanted this, needed this, but he could tell it was hard on her. She was
a nice woman. A lady. Damned straight she'd never taken off her clothes in front of a camera before.

That made them even in the first time department, cuz he'd never before played these kinds of games.

For Sera, he would. He'd take that walk on the wild side. Though he preferred vanilla sex, he'd do the
kinky stuff for her.

“Shall I take my top off?” she asked in confusion. Eager anticipation too.

“Did I tell you take it off?” he asked sternly, using a severe, dominant voice.

“No, but I thought-”

“You'll do exactly what I tell you to, and you won't question me again. I'm your husband now.
Remember? A good wife obeys her husband.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, raising the white cotton, the color in her face high, that first telling flush of pleasure
taking over.

“All the way up and over your nipples,” Tomas coaxed. “That's a good wife.”

Eyes downcast, she hiked the white cotton to her chin.

Fuck, he muttered. But under his breath; he had to be real careful not to give his own excitement away.
She might be killing him, but he had to stay in control, in charge.

Sera, he suspected, was the kind of lady who liked being dominated. To oblige her fantasy, he couldn't
reveal to her how completely she owned him, how totally she could twist him around her little finger.

“Your nipples are very...large. Hard too. Are they always so large and hard, wife?”

“I don't understand what we're doing. Your voice is never harsh-”

He stopped her. “I'm training you to be my obedient wife. That is what you want, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then, answer my question.”

“No, husband, my nipples have never been this large and hard before. It's you who makes them so.”

He nodded his head in approval. Sera caught on quick. “Do your tits hurt?”

“Yes,” she said meekly. “My...tits do hurt. Very much so. They ache for you, husband.”

“Would it help if I touched them?”

“Yes.”

“Ask me politely, like a good wife should.”

“Please touch my tits, husband.”

He pressed the elevator's stop button, said in a tone that came right out of BDSM central casting, “You
may come to me, wife.”

For a woman prone to being contrary, Sera sure flew across the elevator floor. She stood before him,
meekly looking up at him from under the fringe of her eyelashes. “I'd like a kiss.”

He cupped the small weight she presented to him, moved his thumb pad gently over the peak, and
watched her squirm.

“Good wives do not place demands kisses on their husbands,” he rebuked. “You must be punished!”

He very nearly laughed his ass off over the shocked look that fell over her face.

Man, how did guys ever carry this routine off without pissin’ their boxers? How was it that their women
didn't just haul off and slug ‘em for being a first class prick? He could see the BDSM stuff every once
and a while, just to spice things up, but who'd want a steady diet of this crap?

Not him. Give him equal opportunity fucking-

“Punishment?” Sera asked, her squeak interrupting his thought flow. “What sort of punishment?”

Her green eyes sparkled with unladylike curiosity...and excitement. “You mean, like a bare-bottom
spanking?”

Paddle Sera's ass? Maybe take a chance of bruising her silky flesh? Hell, no!

Unless, she insisted.

“Your punishment is no kisses,” he said, like a smarmy ass-hole.

Her lowered lashes fluttered. “Oh dear, I did so want a kiss...”

It was killing him not taking her lips. They looked so cute wearing a pout.

“You know,” he said weakening, “maybe I could modify the punishment-”

Sera's eyes went from sparkling to disappointed.

Shit! Wouldn't you know it? She liked him in the Dom's role. Maybe he'd created a monster; maybe
Sera liked the BDSM stuff just a little too much-

But he was doing this for her, not for himself, so he slipped back in character.

“No kisses!” he said authoritatively. “Ask me again and I will have no choice but to spank you.”

He really might die trying to please Sera tonight.

“Now for your nipples,” he said, sternly, “do you need a hard or a soft touch?”

“Hard,” she replied.

Figured.

Tomas took the end of Sera's distended nipple between two fingers and squeezed.

She raised a hand to his chest, as if to touch his nipple too.

“You may not touch me during your training, wife,” he chastised. “If you do, my touch will be
withdrawn.”

Her hands went behind her back. “Sorry,” she said prettily.

“You're learning,” he praised. “Your tits are small-”

“I'm sorry, husband. Would you like me to cover myself?”

“Before you interrupted me, wife, I was about to say that your tits are small beauties, perfect in every
way.”

“Oh, Tom-I mean husband. What a romantic compliment.”

Too romantic, he thought glumly. He needed to get tougher with her, harder on her.

The jeans were low-riders, hanging so low slung on her flared hips that he could almost see pink. He
fully intended to see pink before the elevator made it to the top.

“Take off the jeans, Sera,” he ordered.

Her fingers rushed for the snap, only to stall when she remembered the overhead audio-video
equipment.

“Do it,” he said firmly.

As if in a daze, she kicked off her shoes, then unzipped. Her hand, however, remained on guard duty at
her crotch.

“Are you hiding your succulent pussy from me, wife?”

“Not from you, Tomas. It's the camera,” she said, tremulously.

“I will have wedding pictures of my bride,” he insisted. “Do it, or I will do it for you. And if that happens,
I will hang the photos on the walls of my office.”

Yeah, right. Like he'd ever do that.

Oh, he'd get the photos printed up all right, in his own private dark room. The pictures, however, were
strictly for his private pleasure.

Sera, given an excellent reason for compliance, pushed the black denim down and off.

His bride's pretty pussy was weeping. Her golden-brown pubic hair glistened with sex tears, her upper
thighs slick with her juices.

Tomas felt his chest constrict. Oh, Sera, baby! You gotta be hurtin’ so bad.

It had been too long since she'd been fucked.

“Open it,” he said.

“Ex-excuse me?”

He'd have to use the V-word; anything else and Sera would go catatonic.

“Open your vagina up for me,” he growled savagely.

Making a vee with two fingers, she pulled up on the swollen lips of her pussy.

“More, baby,” he ordered. “I want this one blown up.”

Panting, she widened the slit.

His hand went between her slippery thighs, his index finger gently going up and in.

Head thrown back, Sera convulsed with a scream against the wall.

One down, many more to go.

“Again,” he ordered, two fingers working slowly up inside her pussy.

She was so tight! How was it that she was so damned tight?

As soon as he could manage, his fingers moved in and out; his thumb moved to the top of her sex.

“How do you want me to do you?” he asked.

“I-I don't know what you mean.”

“Your clit. How do you want me to do your clit?” he spelled it out. Some women liked direct
stimulation; some women preferred an indirect stroke. He wanted to pleasure Sera, not hurt her.

To show her what he meant, he slid his thumb over the little nub.

She went off like a rocket.

When his tuckered-out baby sagged against him, Tomas scooped her into his arms, and hit the elevator
release button. When the doors opened, he carried his lady-bride into their honeymoon suite, her
beautiful loosened hair trailing down her back like a bridal veil.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Yep, Sera thought, a big goofy grin on her face, she had Tomas right where she wanted him.

Annulment indeed! She mused, her neck lolling against her husband's solid chest as he carried her down
a hall.

He was easy-pickings now. A stallion like Tomas Ruiz could never go without sex. He wouldn't break
his vows either. And that made her his only available option.

Bye-bye platonic arrangement, hello honeymoon.

Her husband was between a rock and a hard place, and she was his only port in the storm.

Okay, so her metaphors were mixed. It was the imagery that was important. Regardless that she wasn't
his usual type of woman, there was a sexual attraction buzzing between them, and if Tomas wanted sex,
he'd have to settle on her. By hook or by crook, this marriage was getting consummated!

“I didn't realize you were such a traditionalist, Tomas. Carrying me over the threshold just like your
bride...”

“You are my bride,” he said, dumping her in the middle of a king-sized bed.

Her rear end bounced on the comfy mattress. Giddy after two hard climaxes, everything was looking
pretty darn rosy.

Or maybe that was the rose petal strewn coverlet.

“Oh, Tomas,” she said softly, picking up a handful of red petals, careful not to crush the delicate flowers.
“You gave me roses. That's twice now.”

“A bride should have a wedding bouquet. Since you didn't want to carry flowers during the vows, you
can wear them now.”

Opening her palm, she released the petals, letting them drift over her prone, practically naked, body.

They tickled as they drifted over her bare bosom like the softest of kisses. One petal landed on an
upright nipple, and she giggled.

When Tomas palmed her breast on the elevator, his brown fingers closing around the tip, the contrast of
their skin pigments had fired her blood, as had the size of his hand. If hand size translated to the rest of
his body parts, then...

Sera smacked her lips together. All that masculine power! She couldn't wait to feel his thrust inside her.

From the waist down she was nude, the white tank top was somewhere around her neck, and her big
strong husband was gently opening her legs.

Things were looking good.

It was dark in the room, but she could tell that her husband was somewhere directly in front of her.
Disappointingly, she realized he was still fully clothed-his denim-encased leg was brushing the outside of
her bare legs as he hovered over her, close enough for her to pick up his scent again.

She wanted to tell him how much she loved the way that he smelled, but she couldn't quite bring herself
to put the thought into words. There was the rejection factor to consider. He might, after all, still leap
from the bed at the last possible minute and run shrieking from the room. Or worse yet, yawn with
apathy.

In the elevator, under starkness of artificial light, Tomas had seen her body for the very first time. The
surveillance equipment seemed like a third person, and the clicking lens made her feel bashful. Now it
was dark, and she was still feeling bashful.

Lying there on the bed, she was too afraid to move naturally, too afraid that if she did, she'd do
something really, really, incredibly stupid, sexually speaking, and he'd give up on her.

Once before on a wedding night, she'd been turned down for sex-

In order to continue doing the missionary work she's loved, she'd needed to stay in India. In order to
stay in India, she'd given up a precious part of herself to a sterile marriage. And that precious part of her
nature had withered up and dried like a spent flower blossom. No matter how much she'd loved her
work, it hadn't compensated for what she had sacrificed. Slowly but surely, she had begun to feel dead
inside-

This new Sera, the one who had a nickname, the one who wore jeans, was tired of feeling dead inside.

Reaching up over her head, she yanked her last remaining garment, the white cotton tank top, over her
head.

She was now naked. Totally naked. Stark naked. Blissfully naked. Naked as the day she was born.

New, new, all of this was so new to her! She was new too. Reborn.

Sex. It was all due to sex.

Work-callused hands went to her hair, lifting the weight of it, running fingers through it. Now her hair
was lifted. To a masculine face? To an arrogant nose?

She heard Tomas breathe, not a normal shallow breath, either. This was a tremendous inhale.

“I've wanted to do this since that first day, when you tried to put a polish on me. You smell like nothing
I've ever smelled before. Like raindrops on flowers.”

Raindrops on flowers...What a pretty and romantic thing to say! It was the kind of bedroom poetry a
woman hungers to hear, and the words fell from the lips of a man whose rough edges she was supposed
to smooth out. He sounded plenty smooth enough already.

Of course, he'd had plenty of opportunities to rehearse lines like that, ample occasions to perfect their
delivery. There were some decadent stories going around town about Tomas, about sex parties that
lasted ‘till dawn, about his swapping and sharing and multi-partnering the most gorgeous of women,
about his breaking taboos she'd never even heard of nor could imagine even after hearing of them. And
she was in bed with him. Lying stiff as a board.

She was not a vain woman, had no particular qualms about nudity, but how could she ever compete with
those kinds of decadent stories, those kinds of gorgeous women?

She couldn't, and so she turned her face to the wall, invoicing all her faults, enumerating them in her
head, one by one, as Tomas fingered her hair, not touching her body at all. After seeing what he was
getting in the elevator, he was probably too bored to bother.

“Sera, your hair...I gotta see your beautiful hair all loose around your shoulders in bed.” He whispered
close to her ear, “I'm gonna go hit the light switch-”

Nothing doing! Not when she had him right where she wanted him.

Terrified that Tomas was only being kind, that the lights were just an excuse for him to leave, terrified
that once he left he might not come back, she cried, “No, don't go! I-I don't want any lights.”

“Okay-” he answered, pulling back, voice uneasy, wary.

She knew it! He did want to leave! He was only being kind. The lights were only an excuse.

How could she ever have hoped to excite Tomas?

The man rubbed shoulders, and other body parts, with exotic dancers, for goodness sakes! He could
have any woman he wanted, and did. Often. Tomas was only in bed with her now because she had
coerced him into having sex. Would she never learn? She had done much the same thing with Matt and
with disastrous results.

“I've changed my mind,” she told Tomas, letting him off the sex hook. No sense forcing him to do
something he obviously didn't want to do.

“I wouldn't have to put it inside you,” her husband said, his hand skimming her body. “You know what I
mean?”

He cupped her breasts in his big, capable hands. “Know what I mean, Sera? Just like in the elevator.

We could do it like that-”

Her back arched, and she moaned through her mouth, the noises she made taking her by surprise.

“Know what I mean, honey?” he said, stroking the centers of her breasts to exquisitely sensitized
hardness.

She thought she could let Tomas off the sex hook, but she found that, selfishly, she couldn't give up what
he was doing. It just felt too good.

Her distended nipples were caught, then pinched. Not hurtfully, but the potential for a pleasured-pain
was there.

She wanted it. For the first time in years, she was starting to feel.

Her vagina grew moist. When his hand moved between her thighs to cradle her vulva, she held her
breath. The outer folds of her labia were separated with two large fingers. A digit-the index?-slid up into
her vagina, penetrating the slick passage, just as he had done in the elevator. A shiver took hold of her
and wouldn't let go.

“I can tell it's been a while for you,” he said, slowly. “Your cunt is wet, but tight.”

She didn't mean to, but she gasped.

His touch was immediately withdrawn. “Listen, I know you're nice. Refined. And I know I'm not. That's
what I keep telling you, why I didn't want this to happen.” He sighed. “I use crude words, Sera. I think
crude words. Now, I'm gonna do some things to you, sex things, that maybe you're not used to having
done. And I'm gonna say some things too, sex things, that maybe you're not used to either. If that's gonna
offend you, better speak up quick.

“But you know something?” he interjected before she could do any of that speaking up quick that he
wanted her do. “I don't think you are offended. I think you like my crude language, Sera. And I think you
like what I do to you too.”

He was right: The crude word had excited her, not offended her. She'd gasped in pleasure, not outrage.
And she very much liked what he had done to her so far.

She'd been married for five years, a widow for a year. Because of a date with a candle, she no longer
possessed proof of her inexperience, but she was inexperienced. She'd never had sexual intercourse. Her
marriage had not been consummated. That's why she was tight. But to tell Tomas so would show
disloyalty to the memory of her husband, it would expose the lie that was their marriage-

“I need release, Tomas,” she grated out the words; they were so difficult to speak! “There's a knot in my
belly that won't go away. I know you're good at this. At sex,” she panted like an animal in heat. “Please!
Treat me as you do all your other women. That's what I want. That's all I want. Say whatever you
please, any words you'd care to use. And...and do what you want too. Everything you want. Tell me
what you want me to do and I'll do it. I won't be offended.”

“You won't?”

“No, I won't.”

“So if I were to tell you that I'm going to get up out of the bed and turn on the lights so that I can see
inside your pussy, you'd be fine with that? Like, I wouldn't burn my hand on your blush if I did that to
you?”

“I'd be fine with that.”

He kissed her lips, softly, delicately, romantically, his gentle touch belying his rough language.

The mattress shifted as his weight was lifted, and then the lights were flicked on, and he was back on the
bed with her.

“Even your toes are rosy,” he teased as he spread her thighs. “And I don't understand why. You've got
the prettiest damned cunt, Sera.”

She groaned. “Oh, dear...”

“I think I understand what you want from me now, and you'll get it too. Everything.” He took her lips,
and this time his tongue was in her mouth, lustily sampling the interior.

“We'll do it all, Sera,” he said, breaking the kiss. “No sheep, though. Those rumors about me and
barnyard animals are false. They're too wooly, even for a depraved degenerate like me.”

No bestiality?

She could live with that.

“But everything else, if that's what you want from me, that's what we'll do. Okay?”

Wanting Tomas's lusty mouth again, she nodded her head in happy agreement.

He gave it to her, open and hot, the heavy thrust of his tongue against her throat, his fingertips gently,
reverently, skimming her face, tracing the outline of her jaw.

She thrust up her breasts like a hussy in the hope that he would take the hint and touch her there again.

“Oh, Sera,” he said, and chuckled. “I'm gonna fondle your tits, don't you worry. I'm gonna have my
hands all over you before the night is through.”

And then he was searing her with his kisses, branding her with them. Not just on her mouth.
Everywhere. She didn't know a man could kiss a woman like that. His mouth was open, his tongue
sipping the perspiration and salt from her skin. He kissed his way down her throat, and she giggled when
he reached her breastbone because the whiskers on his jaw tickled, and she hadn't expected that
sensation.

But when his mouth attached itself to a nipple and sucked noisily on the distended flesh, her giggles
ended. Raising her arms, she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling the long ends free of the leather
tie he always wore to keep it neat.

As his teeth attached themselves to the hardened tip of her tit and pulled, actually biting the end, she
yanked his hair and screamed.

It felt so good! What he was doing, the roughness of it. Even the slight pain of it, felt so good. She
wanted to tell him never to stop. She wanted to tell him to mark her skin, to leave teeth marks behind so
that she'd have a reminder of this night tomorrow.

But already the silky strands of his hair were slipping through her fingertips as Tomas, finished with her
breasts, moved lower. His mouth slid down to her belly, his tongue jabbing in and out of her bellybutton.

His whiskered jaw rubbed back and forth on her pelvis, his rough beard catching on her pubic hair.

He kissed the inside of each thigh, and then he was there, his mouth on her labia, his tongue at her core,
penetrating the passage first, before seeking and finding the small bump at the top of her sex.

At the first exquisite lick, she bucked. She was that sensitive there! Even when bathing, she avoided that
small scrap of flesh. And now Tomas's tongue had found her terrible weakness and he was feeding the
secret hunger inside her.

Her vagina was spasming. Sobbing and weeping, she was coming apart.

She came on a scream.

While she was still panting, the last tremor not even subsided, in her greed she demanded, “More! I
need more. Please, Tomas, come inside me.”

Lifting his head up from between her legs, he licked his lips. Then coming up over her, he kissed her.

She tasted herself on his lips! Smelled herself too. Horrified, she pulled away.

“That's how your honey tastes,” he said, and grinned wickedly.

Shocking!

Wonderful too, because Tomas was still licking his lips as he smiled into her wide eyes. He liked it! He
liked her smell, her taste.

“Roll over onto your belly,” he said next.

She hesitated.

“Do it, Sera,” he said with that dominance that drove her wild.

She scrambled over onto her belly, as he had said to do, flattening herself on the sheets.

“Baby, you ain't acting like you want me,” he said, his voice colored by something she didn't understand.

Had she done something wrong already?

She didn't know what she had done, why he was displeased with her. She'd have to ask to find out.

“Please, Tomas, just tell me what you want me to do.”

“What I want is you doggie-style. Or do missionaries only do the missionary?”

Her face grew warm in embarrassment. She didn't know about other church people, but this missionary
had never done anything.

To eliminate the threat of discovery, she went to all fours, a fast reshuffling of her body lest he become
disgusted over her sexual clumsiness.

“You're my husband, Tomas. There's nothing I won't do, no position I won't agree to,” she told him.

He had undressed while waiting for her to reposition herself. At her words, he climbed up on top of the
bed and went behind her.

Tomas was all healthy manhood, the thickness of his sex ample evidence of his virility. She felt the
extension of his penis, the glans butting her upper thigh, his maleness so prominent that she went weak
with anticipation at its entry-

Until she was told, “Bring your bottom up.”

Her bottom was large. She didn't want to bring it up anywhere, not in polite conversation, and not with a
man who'd seen his share of small bare bottoms.

But she wanted him. She wanted this.

Putting aside what little vanity she did have, she brought her big bottom up, raised it right up, and
straightened her arms.

The agony of full disclosure! He now knew the broadness of her hips, the generous proportions of her
rear end. It was not something she could hide from his eyes any longer, or from his roaming hands.

Nor could she hide the way her breasts jiggled. She wasn't large on top, but the sheer force of gravity
caused them to swing back and forth.

In that animalistic position, head lowered, bottom raised, breasts toppled, she pleaded for relief, “Please,
Tomas?”

At her plea, he reached beneath her to handle the hardened tips of her swinging breasts, and the
moisture that had pooled inside her vagina, beaded, then dripped down the inside of her thighs in a
pearled parade.

He was kissing her skin now, mouthing her skin, licking her skin from nape to backbone, his tongue
cooling her hot skin, bathing away her perspiration on a course begun by his hands, hands that were now
filled with her buttocks.

As he kissed the base of her spine, he opened her. In back. He spread her bottom cheeks. He was
kissing his way inside! He actually tongued her anus.

Knowing her husband's reputation, she'd expected less than gentlemanly sex. Shocking sex, yes. Even
kinky sex. Absolute possession? No, she was not prepared for that. She wanted it. Absolute possession,
and nothing less, was what her body demanded. “Come inside me. I don't care how.”

His mouth lifted, his hands tightened on her hips. “Frottage only.”

At first she didn't understand what he meant. But then she'd recalled from her high school French that
frottage came from the verb ‘to rub'. Considering how they were engaged, it didn't take much interpreting
to figure out that frottage meant the act of rubbing for the purpose of attaining sexual gratification.

Wanting more than rubbing, she started to argue. “But-”

“Un-un. No butts either,” he said, and chuckled.

How could he tease at a time like this?

Obviously, he wasn't feeling the intensity of what she was feeling; he was not as fully involved in this as
she.

But she could argue no more. His penis-excruciatingly hot, unbelievably thick, devastatingly long—had
started to rub back and forth between her anus and vagina, smooth strokes across her perineum that
started her trembling all over again.

The pleasure, oh the unspeakable pleasure! There were no words for what she was feeling.

Her forehead plopped onto the pillow.

“Yes,” she screamed breathlessly. “Oh, yes. Yes. Yes!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wouldn't'ya just know it? Tomas mused, kissing along Sera's beautiful spine as his cock sawed back
and forth between her legs. Just when a guy starts wanting to live down his reputation, he finds a woman
who wants him to live right up to the rumors.

Which were far from true. He liked pussy, and there'd been women, lots of women, but not hundreds of
women. And he hadn't done most of the things the good folks of Fenton said that he had.

He was quickly leaving the world of vanilla sex behind, because if there was ever a woman ripe for
sexual adventuring, it was the missionary lady.

Why?

Had to have something to do with her grief, with the way she'd lost her husband. Sera needed an escape
valve.

That would be him.

He'd already decided he'd be there for her. For talk, if she needed to talk. For sexual release, if that's
what she needed. He sure as hell wasn't about to make any judgement calls on the appropriateness of
one method over the other.

Sera needed a way to let go of her sorrow. As far as he could see, there was no right or wrong way to
do it. Anything goes. The trick was in giving her what she wanted, no more, no less, while still retaining

control of the situation.

No problem. Whatever she needed, he'd provide. He'd even reconsider the damn sheep, though in his
opinion animals belonged in the corral, not in the bedroom. Sera was gonna get all the sexual adventuring
she needed. He'd go out to one of the sex shops in Fenton and buy some toys tomorrow. Hell, he didn't
care how many batteries the damn things needed; he was going for broke.

Tomas moved his aching cock back and forth across the plump lips of Sera's pussy, back to front. He
was up on his knees behind her, a position where control is easier for a man to maintain. Even so, it
wasn't easy keeping the pre-come-soaked head of his dick out of Sera's slit.

Frankly, it was killing him. Frankly, he wanted to fuck sweet Sera until she begged him not to stop.

She was drenched with her own juices and from his mouth's saliva. She was also swollen, just from the
little he'd done to her. And virgin tight.

Good thing they were going frottage, because Sera wasn't ready to take on a man with a dick his size,
not after a year's abstinence. After the death of her husband, she needed some time spent in warm-up
before getting back in the balling game.

“Oh Tomas,” she moaned. “Oh Tomas,” she groaned. “Oh Tomas,” she cried, then screamed, then
came. Again.

He soothed her with kisses during the after-quakes, and when she was calm again, fell back and away,
scooting onto his haunches, his balls aching so bad he didn't know if he'd be able to stand up straight
when he got off the bed.

And he had to get off the bed. He had to take his frustrated ass to the bathroom where he could take
care of his damn nobility in the shower.

All smooth-like, Tomas started to ease away.

No hurry. He figured he was good for another thirty seconds before he exploded.

“My turn,” Sera whispered.

Huh?

“Pardon?” he said politely, while trying not to laugh, which would've hurt his blue balls just a little too
much.

“My turn to do frottage.”

Yeah. Right. It was painfully clear that the missionary woman didn't know what the hell she was talking
about.

He postponed the date with himself to explain the facts of life. A short explanation, as his dick was
pointing toward the shower, and he never argued with his dick's sense of direction. “Sweetie, you don't
have what it takes to do frottage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sera, honey, you can't dry hump me. You don't got the right equipment.”

That was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd put his foot in it.
Now Sera would set out to prove him wrong.

While Tomas debated how to make a graceful exit for the bathroom where he could jerk off his misery
in private, Sera said, “Don't move. Stay right there,” and wiggled out from under.

She mounted him. There was no other way to say it. Her mouth, her hands were all over him, kissing
and feeling him up and down, grinding her pussy against his ass, while he panted on all fours like he was
the mare and she was the stud. It was damn humiliating.

“No! No! Not there,” he shouted. “Don't touch me there!”

Too late.

When she cupped his balls, his date with his fist in the shower was no longer necessary.

* * * *

Sera fell asleep face down on the bed. When she awakened it was to find herself alone in the room.
Abandoned on one wedding night; she was not putting up with it again.

Pulling on her discarded white tank top, she went in search of her bridegroom.

Tomas and his cold feet were out on the roof deck garden. He was putting the finishing touches on a
table set for two.

“How lovely,” she said admiring the surroundings, now that she was noticing them.

She pushed her disheveled hair back from her face, wholly conscious of her less than decorous
appearance and her husband's dashing good looks.

How had she ever mistaken him a Southside criminal?

He had shaved, she noticed, a close shave that highlighted his strong jaw. Yes, he still had the rakish
devil-may-care attitude of a desperado, and yes, there was a certain ‘gem in the rough’ quality about his
face, but the man before her was totally masculine, totally confident of who he was and where he was
going in the world. Who needed even features and refined manners when a pair of flashing black eyes
made her heart literally skip a beat?

As to the rest...his brown chest was bare and smoothly hairless. His nipples were dark brown and flat
against the immense wall of his chest. The white muslin trousers he wore were loosely woven, loosely
fitting, and for that reason, were very nearly transparent.

Twenty-twenty vision was not needed to see that he wore nothing underneath. This informality on his
part was much appreciated, as she hadn't had the pleasure...or the opportunity...of seeing him in the
nude. She'd felt him, oh yes, she had. She knew the length of him, the thickness of him, but visually, his
body remained a mystery.

The loose fit of his muslin trousers revealed some of that mystery.

He was impressively erect, and not hiding the condition. The enormous jut of his sex looked every bit as
daunting it had felt between her legs. When he turned to the side to light a single white candle, she saw
that his buttocks were tight and muscled, as were his legs.

Tomas Ruiz was gorgeous.

And all hers.

At least temporarily

She made a sweep of the table with a hand. “This was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“A bride should have a wedding night dinner.” He grinned. “It's catered.”

He mentioned one of Fenton's premier hotels. “So extravagant,” she murmured or something close.

“I'm not a poor man, Sera.”

He gestured to a bottle chilling on a smaller table. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”

Tugging on the hem of the white tank top-it barely skimmed the top of her thighs-she said, “I feel a little
underdressed, Tomas. I think I should find those jeans first.”

“This patio is completely private. But, if you would like to dress for dinner, you'll find something to wear
in the master suite's closet.”

“You bought me something else to wear?”

He shrugged. “I enjoyed shopping for you.”

A worry occurred to her. “Tomas, is it all right that we use this condo? I mean, it's for sale, and here we
are making use of the furnishings.”

“Sera, I own the whole building. I can do anything I want with the damn furnishings.”

“But why bring me here? We could've stayed at the mansion.”

“I'm having an...uh...over-night work crew gut a few rooms at the mansion and I thought they'd disturb
us on our wedding night.”

“You didn't say anything to me earlier about an overnight work crew-”

“I wanted to surprise you. Remember, I told you the house is my wedding gift to you. No reason to
delay what...uh...has to be done. I thought this would be nicer than staying in a hotel for the night.”

She frowned. Why did she have the feeling that Tomas, her husband of only a few short hours, was lying
to her?

Must've been the nervous stammer that gave it away. Tomas never stammered.

Two seconds later, the stammer was gone and Tomas was saying in an authoritative way, “Get dressed
now. When you're ready, come join me up here on the roof.”

Apprehension about her husband's possible lack of truthfulness was forgotten in a rush of happiness as
she raced to do his bidding.

* * * *

Dinner was not a relaxed hour of light conversation and delicious cuisine.

Sera barely noticed the food on her plate. She knew that she lifted the fork to her mouth several times
but could not for the life of her remember if she had swallowed or not. She certainly could not recall the
taste of what she may or may not have eaten. It was all a blur, lost in her excitement over the coming
night.

Her wedding night, she thought anxiously, plucking at the white gauzy dress she was wearing.

The dress was sexy. Whether or not she looked sexy in it was another matter entirely. If she went by her
husband's behavior, she'd have to say that she must look absolutely hideous in the dress, as Tomas hadn't
looked at her directly throughout the course of their silent meal.

Was she so repugnant that he couldn't bring himself to glance her way?

There was no other explanation for his tenseness, for his lack of conversation, for his strained
discomfort.

She missed his teasing. As difficult as it was for her to admit, she even missed his studied charm. Why
wouldn't he at least look at her? Spare her a glance?

But no, he refused to look at her across the width of the damask tablecloth.

Tomas was having second doubts about this marriage. Just when she had started to hope too!

His loss of control when it was her turn to perform frottage had thrilled her. His loss of control had made
her feel like a desirable woman for the first time in her life. Sera knew Tomas didn't really want to make
love to her, but the illusion that he did want her, genuinely wanted her, had done much to booster her
sagging confidence.

Now this! The silent treatment and no eye contact.

Was it her big bottom? Did he find the size of her hips repulsive? A complete turn-off?

Or perhaps the problem was her small breasts. Men liked busty women. And she was anything but.

Or maybe it was everything about her, both big and small. She just simply and totally disgusted him.

She finally said, “I don't want to sleep alone on my wedding night.”

Again, she was thinking but didn't say; she would not dwell on her disastrous first wedding night now.

“Will you share that big bed with me?” she asked her new husband.

“I'm sorry, Sera. I just can't.” He pushed away from the table and went to stand by the roof's brick wall.

“You could try closing your eyes,” she suggested, rising from the table and going to him.

Standing before him, she undid the ties on her flowing, white gauzy dress. “You could pretend I'm some
other woman, some woman you'd rather be with, an attractive woman.” She slipped the dress off one
shoulder, then the other. Without any other means of keeping it up, it fell softly about her ankles.

“What the hell are you trying to do to me, Sera? And what the hell is this shit about me pretending you're
another woman? I know damn well who you are. You're my wife. And I only have so much control.”

“Control? I don't understand.”

“When you touched my bal-my testicles-I lost it. I want you to know that has never, and I do mean
NEVER, happened to me before. Except with you. I can usually keep a woman happy all night long
without ever...without ever...”

“Ejaculating?”

Tomas blushed a very nice shade of brownish-pink. “Geez, you talk blunt! But yeah. That,” he said
bashfully. “I make damn sure the woman is always wearing a smile of satisfaction before I even think
of...before I even think of...”

“Ejaculating?” she again supplied.

How had Tomas Ruiz earned his womanizing reputation if he couldn't talk frankly about sex? She
wondered.

“Yeah. That. A gentleman always takes care of his lady first.”

“You did take care of me first, Tomas. I was only trying to return the favor. And now I'd like us to sleep
together in the same bed. Is that too much for a bride to ask of her husband on their wedding night? We
can turn off all the lights...or...or...you can just close your eyes and pretend that I'm some sexy beauty. I
don't mind. I only want to be with you-”

“Fuck!” Her husband started frantically rubbing the back of his neck. “Sera, look at my cock, woman!”

She did. It was difficult to believe, but the bulge was longer, harder, thicker than before.

“Oh, my.” She licked her lips.

“That's what you do to me. That's what your tits and your ass and your sweet luscious cunt do to me,
and that's why I can't sleep with you. I'm already in pain. How much more do you expect me to take
before I can't take no more and I ram my dick into your lady-like pussy? You're too tight for me tonight.
Now get away from me quick.”

“I can't, Tomas. I need to touch you,” she said, and sank to her knees in front of him.

“Sera, no!” he shouted. “You're a lady. Ladies don't go down on rough men like me.”

Was his opinion of her gallant, but nevertheless misguided? Or was he just finding excuses to avoid
intimacy, any kind of intimacy, with her?

Yes, he was erect, but that was only physiology. Telling her he wanted her must have been a lie, she
decided, for an experienced man like him could tell how much she wanted his penis in her mouth, wanted
to know the taste of him, the smell of him, the essence of him.

She could tell him. But if she did, if she revealed to him just how badly she wanted him, there was the
very real risk of him running in the opposite direction.

The trick was to keep it light, no pressure on him to give more than he could. And so she bantered
flirtatiously, “We're married, Tomas. Yes, the arrangement will be of short duration but there's no reason
why we can't enjoy each other's bodies while we're together. It won't mean anything-”

Undoing the buttons on the front of his muslin trousers, she reached inside for his penis.

The weight of his manhood was substantial. Once again, having never held...or seen for that matter...an
adult male with an erect penis, the thickness of him in her hand came as rather a shock.

He was pulsating. And hard. Yet so incredibly soft, all at the same time. She drew an eager finger down
Tomas’ astounding length, tried to ring him with two fingers and failed, put her face, her nose, against the
enormous dark head and inhaled the scent of his sex. When she could wait no longer, she tasted him with
the tip of her tongue.

Tomas dug his hands into her hair. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Oh, my. She loved her husband's rough edges.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” she replied and took him into her mouth.

His thrust, though infinitely gentle, still came as a surprise. She was a grown woman; she should have
known what to expect!

But she hadn't known, hadn't known at all.

Her gag reflex went into overdrive and she coughed, fell backwards. Contact was broken.

“No!” she cried.

How stupid could she get! What must he think of her?

Embarrassed, she looked out over the brick wall.

“I know I'm not like your husband, Sera,” he said evenly, quietly, no betraying anger reflected on his
vocal cords, “but I won't have my own wife turn her face away from me like everybody else does in this
whole fuckin’ town. It's your right to reject me in private, it's your right not to want my cum on your
ladylike lips,” Tomas continued, “just don't make the mistake of rejecting me in public “

Like her husband? She thought, trying to understand why there was so much quiet anguish in his voice.
But they were married! Tomas was her husband now!

Then she understood. Matt. He was talking about Matt! He still considered Matt her husband.

Tomas was not like Matt! And that was a blessing for which she was thankful. She couldn't have borne
another sterile marriage. Tomas had misunderstood! She hadn't turned her face away from him! She
hadn't rejected him. She'd never do that! She wanted him desperately; it was her own ineptness that she
couldn't face.

She needed to explain. “No! It's not like that.”

He lent a hand to steady her as she swayed on her knees at his feet. “This marriage idea was a mistake.
We'll get it annulled. Don't worry, you'll still get the mansion.”

“The mansion,” she repeated, dully. “The mansion is my dream, it's all I've ever wanted.”

Until I met you, her stuttering brain finally processed. She wanted Tomas more than her dream.

She had to explain, had to tell him how much he was beginning to mean to her, but there were no words
adequate to the task. Tomas needed to be shown the depth of her feelings for him.

Letting her actions speak for her, she took her husband's thick penis in her hands again, and guided the
hard length to her lips.

“Sera, you don't have to do this. I don't expect it...”

Her reply was incoherent. “I do. I do have to do this. I owe you...so much my dream...you've given me
so much...” Oh, she was saying it all wrong, doing everything all wrong! She wanted this so badly that
she was botching it.

Mortified, she couldn't go on, couldn't complete the thought, couldn't tell him that he was more important
to her than her dream for a school, that because of him, she was able to feel something again.

At her incomplete avowal, a hurt look fell over Tomas’ face. “You don't owe me nothing.”

In a rush to show him how wrong he was, she virtually pounced on his penis, inexpertly taking him once
again between her lips.

He moaned deep in his throat. Had she would hurt him? Bitten him by mistake? Damaged him in some
other undefined way?

But, no. He didn't appear injured. In fact, his big hands held her lightly around the shoulders, supporting
her, and he was moving very slowly, very carefully, in her mouth.

She was relieved that he hadn't rejected her, but she still couldn't relax. This was a man who had droves
of women lined up to please him, women who knew what they were doing, while she didn't know what
she was doing. Enthusiasm couldn't possibly make up for expertise. Almost thirty-one years old, and a
widow, and she didn't know how to pleasure the man who was her husband.

Consequently, it was over before it really began. A few tepid thrusts, a gruff groan, a hot spurt at the
back of her throat and Tomas was disengaging. Because she didn't know how to draw it out, the whole
thing couldn't have lasted more than a minute. She was a complete failure as a woman.

Not knowing what was expected of her next, she looked to Tomas for guidance.

“Your call,” he told her, his voice kind but defeated.

She'd done that to him, she thought as she swallowed. She'd put that horrible resignation in his voice. He
was too kind to ever tell her so, but she knew just the same. He regretted their marriage, realized what a
mistake he had made, and now was trying valiantly to accept the intolerable, which was what marriage to
her amounted to.

When he helped her to her feet, her humiliation over her botched effort at seducing him caused her to
bolt. She ran downstairs to the master suite, where she crawled under the quilt on the big bed, and in
private, cried herself to sleep.

Sometime much later she awakened with a sick feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. When she rose
from the large empty bed and searched the luxury unit, her sick feeling was confirmed: Tomas was not in
the condo.

Unable to bring himself to sleep with her, her new husband had left her alone. It was a repeat of her first
wedding night, only so much worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Tomas?” his wife called out to him from behind the partially open bedroom door. “Is that you?”

Damn! He'd disturbed her! He thought he was being so quiet about sneaking back into the condo. The
elevator doors opened and closed with hardly a squeak He'd even taken off his boots. How had she
heard him?

It had been one hell of a long night and he was weary. He had to dig deep for a teasing tone. “Yep. It's
only me, Sera.”

To set her mind at ease, he stuck his hand in the cracked door and waved.

“Won't you come in? Please?”

Her voice sounded all quivery. Before leaving, he'd checked in on her and she was sound asleep. She
must have awakened after that and found him missing. She was probably scared. What harm would it do
to reassure her that everything was okay?

Besides, it might be something else, something more serious. Something might have happened while he
was gone. Or, maybe Sera was ill-

He hadn't had time to wash up and change. But there was no light coming out from under the bedroom
door; in the dark, Sera wouldn't be able to tell that he was filthy. He'd take his chances, because selfishly,
he had to see her. Being around Sera always took the bite off his natural edginess. He was plenty edgy
tonight.

Tomas eased open the bedroom door.

And froze. No lights, but there was plenty of moonlight streaming in the windows, and by that light he
could see Sera. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of the white lace nightgowns he'd
bought her; clearly, she'd been waiting up for him.

Because of his misspent youth, he was pretty good at keeping himself hidden. When he stepped into the
room, he automatically clung to the violet shadows. From those shadows, he could see Sera but he was
fairly confident she couldn't see him.

Just in case she could make out the shine of his teeth in the darkness, he pasted a smile on his face.
“Everything okay in here?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I was restless. You know how it is when you're in a strange place, in a
different bed. I got a little...I don't know...lonesome I guess.”

He knew how that went. As a kid he never knew where he would sleep at night. “Don't be lonesome.
I'm right in the bedroom next door. I just got up to get a glass of water in the kitchen. I'm sorry I
disturbed you. Go back to sleep.”

Gaining her feet, Sera walked around the bed. Her bare back was a delicate length of seduction, and
late or not, tired or not, he was seduced.

She reached for the light switch.

He rasped, “No lights. They...uh...hurt my eyes.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “But please stay. We need to talk.”

He took a hesitant step closer. Knowing he'd regret it, he took another, until he was facing her. Hanging
onto what remained of his control, he allowed his eyes to rest on his tiny wife.

Not for the first time, he noticed the subtle details that contributed to making his wife beautiful: her long
fingers, the delicate shells of her ears, her stubborn chin, her incredibly dark lashes.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch a long strand of her hair, which was lying over her shoulder in
front. “My mother had hair your color. Once, I must have been about five or six, I was home alone and
bored and I came across a baby picture of me cradled on my mother's lap. It was kind of wrinkled and
crammed in a shoebox. The discovery surprised me because I didn't realize my father had any photos of
me or my mother.”

His fingers slid down the length of hair until they crossed over onto Sera's breast. There, temptation
won, and he encompassed as much of her skin as his fingers could span, until all five of his bloodied digits
claimed the dainty mound of warm and womanly flesh. “I shouldn't be doing this-”

“We're married,” she whispered. “And it feels right.”

“Better than right,” he said hoarsely.

“You want me, Tomas?” she asked.

“I want you. And I should definitely leave.”

“Oh, go ahead!” she bristled, knocking his hand away and turning her back on him. “Leave. Run away.
Go back to your trailer. You're nothing but a liar!”

Yeah, that's what he'd do, Tomas thought. He'd go back to the trailer to sleep. His wife didn't fuckin’
want him; she wanted Matt, her perfect dead husband. He couldn't compete with a memory locked in
time.

Back inside the connecting bedroom where he had originally planned on spending the night, he tore at his
tee-shirt. It felt too tight, like it was strangling him. When Tomas absently touched the side of his jaw, the
scratch he'd gotten from a jagged piece of broken bottle glass started to bleed and his finger came away
with a sharp sliver.

During that night's scuffle, one dealer, broken beer bottle in hand, had gotten a little too close. Tomas’
fists were his only weapons, and they were enough; in the ensuing scuffle, he'd smashed the dealer's face
in. That toothless mothafucka wouldn't be bothering Sera no more-

Tomas was dirty. Bloody. Covered with glass particles. His clothes were ripped. He reeked of sweat
and anger. The stench of retaliation was carried on his body and he wasn't ashamed of it. And always,
whenever he was anywhere near Sera, there was lust pumping in his veins.

He whipped off the ripped and bloodied tee shirt and tossed it on the single bed.

He was scared shitless about staying with his bride alone tonight. But he couldn't leave Sera alone here
in the condo. Or at the mansion. Not yet. Tonight, he'd handled the situation, and he thought it would stay
cool, but who knew with dealers? They were nothing but creep junkies! Sera and he were married. His
wife was his responsibility. How could he walk out on her?

The refrain hammered inside his head as Tomas circled the floor. How could he walk out on her? How
could he walk out on her...?

He couldn't walk out on her!

But it was hell knowing Sera was his wife and he couldn't fuc...

No! Dammit, no! If he got close to his wife tonight, he wouldn't be fucking her; he'd be making love to
her.

The sane part of him reasoned that even if he did return to the trailer tonight, the torment of wanting her
wouldn't end. The torment was inside him, and there was no running from it. His only recourse was to
face it, have it out with the woman who was tormenting him.

He stormed back out his door and into Sera's room, just as she was about to slip under the covers.
Purposefully, he hit the light switch, making sure she could see him when he said what needed to be said.

His bride was bare under the lace nightgown he'd bought her. His nostrils flared as he picked up her
scent. Her sex perfume was in the air between them, musky and female, telling him that her body was
receptive to sex. And still he managed to keep his voice low. “I don't want to go back to the trailer. But
don't make me wish for things I can't have. There's no sweetness in my life. No softness in my heart. No
beauty in my soul. I got nothing to give you, Sera. Nothing to offer.”

“You have plenty to-”

“Let me finish!”

At her nod, he said, “There's nothing inside me to give you. But, selfishly, I need your presence in my life
like a drowning man needs a life preserver. I need your softness, your womanliness. But it ain't all poetry
and sighs. I need your cunt too. And I also need for you to understand the gritty world I inhabit, where
strangers, people I don't even know, think I'm little better than the dirt under their feet. I don't deserve
you, but I can't leave you like I should, either. You give me peace, Sera.”

“You've hurt the side of your face,” she said quietly.

He brushed his fingers over the tear in his skin. “Yeah, I know.”

She glided toward him on bare feet. “The light is too dim in here. Come into the bathroom with me. The
light's better in there. I need to get a better look at that cut. It might need stitches.”

Like a fool, he followed her inside, like a fool he let her clean him up at the sink.

After a while, she shook her head in that cute exasperated way of hers and asked him the question he'd
dreaded her asking:” Where did you go when you left here tonight, Tomas?”

This is the part he hated. He hated lying to Sera. He'd done it earlier, and now he'd have to do it again.
“I was at The Flamingo.”

“All night? The bar closed hours ago.”

“No, not all night.” He felt sick, but he continued. “I met a woman at the bar. Got in a brawl with a
customer over her. That's why I'm all cut-up. Since I was the one who won the fight, she took me back
to her place to fuck. That's where I was.”

She started to laugh. “My goodness, you think you would have cleaned up a little first before you got in
bed with her.”

“We didn't make it to a bed. I three-holed her in the kitchen. Believe me, sweetheart, we were both too
high to care about a little dirt.”

She sniffed in his direction. “There's no alcohol on your breath.”

Damn! “I said, high, Sera, not drunk.”

“You don't do drugs, Tomas, and you weren't with any barfly tonight. Why would you go through all that
bother when, if you only wanted sex and any woman would do, you had me?”

She wasn't any woman! Sera was his wife, and he didn't only just want sex.

“Didn't you hear me?” he rasped, the sickness in him spreading from his belly to his legs, making him
weak. “I wanted it raunchy. I wanted it down and dirty. I wanted to fuck her ass. You're too much of a
lady for what I wanted.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Take off that nightgown and we'll see,” he said, trying to scare her off.

“Very well,” she said.

Calling him on the bluff, she loosened the ribbon at the neck, letting the white lace fall to the bathroom
floor.

He should've known Sera wouldn't scare easy. He should've known she wouldn't back down. This was
the same woman who'd blasted him with the spray from a bottle of ammonia when she thought he was a
Southside desperado.

She stood there, and in her refined, ladylike way said, “Fuck my ass, Tomas. Go on, I want you to.
Take me just as you took that woman. Three-hole me.”

After she said that, his lie ended. He couldn't take no more.

“I'd never cheat on you, Sera,” he admitted, surrendering his pride. “I wasn't fucking another woman.
The only woman I want is you.”

She hung tough. “I know you would never cheat on me. Now tell me where you were.”

“I was breaking some skulls.”

“Whose, may I ask? Anyone I know?”

He let go a sigh. “I went back to the mansion, made sure the dealers knew I was there alone, and when
they moved in on me, I hit back. I don't think they'll bother you again.”

“I see. Well, I don't approve of fighting as a way to resolve conflict...”

“I didn't suppose you would,” he said dryly.

“Do you have any other injuries? Any that I can't see?”

“No, I fought dirtier than they did so I got out of it in one piece.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Tomas, because if those dealers had hurt you I'd have to find them and hurt them
back.”

Her fingers were cool on his hot skin. The rip in his skin didn't hurt nearly as much when she touched
him.

He asked, like he had asked so many times before of too many strangers to count at so many houses
that were never a home to him: “Does this mean I don't have to go? Does this mean I can stay here with
you?”

“We're married, Tomas. Of course, you can stay. I was only giving you an out, in case you wanted to go
back to your trailer. When you left me alone tonight, I was afraid you wouldn't come back. I was afraid
that you had changed your mind about having a wife, even a temporary one.”

“I took care of the situation tonight, but you'll still need me to stay on at the mansion until I can get those

new houses built. The dealers won't be pushed out for good until then. That's why I can't let you go back
to that house without me being there with you. That's why I had to come back...”

“I see...”

She was silent while she cleansed the remainder of his wounds, silent while she pushed him into the
shower. When he came back out spanking clean, and fully erect, she took his hand.

“Where we goin, woman?” he asked.

“I'm taking you to bed.”

“To our bedroom?”

“Yes. To our bedroom. Temporary or not, this marriage will have no grounds for annulment.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Our bedroom.

Two simple words, buy they meant so much!

Those tossed out words, words Tomas probably didn't even realize he'd said, touched Sera in a deep
and abiding way.

If everything else they'd said thus far to one another had been misunderstood, misinterpreted, or just
dead wrong, the meaning of those two simple words rang true and real and strong.

They were married, and starting tonight they would begin to share a bedroom.

This time, Sera intended to fight for her marriage, because this time, there was something to fight for.
Tomas really did want her, his body told her so, and he really did need her too.

Even though he'd said he had to come back...

Her husband's hand went to her bare bottom as she walked in front of him. He was smoothing his palm
over her buttock, cupping her buttock, a finger fingering the crevice between her buttocks.

“I love your ass,” he said.

The rough words fell like poetry on her ears.

She pulled back the covers and got into bed, reclining on her back.

Instinctively, she knew there would be no foreplay. And so she wasn't at all surprised to hear a drawer
open and close in the darkness and the rustling of foil, followed by the sound of a condom snapped in
place.

“I put these here, just in case. I didn't plan on this happening, Sera, but I'm a man and you know my
reputation. This way, they'll be no chance of you having my baby,” he said as he separated her legs.

In the rush, she hadn't considered birth control. Truthfully, even if she'd had the luxury of time, she still
didn't know if she'd have given contraception a thought. She'd always wanted a baby...

Obviously, Tomas had considered birth control. To him, this marriage was temporary and so, ever
responsible, he was protecting her against an unwanted pregnancy.

And then he was kissing her, and she couldn't think any more.

Tomas was a big man, and though he was up on his elbows, suspended above her, he couldn't spare her
all of his weight.

She liked his weight. She liked his enormous size. She liked the way he both dominated and protected
her by the sheer force of his physical presence.

Because of her date with a candle, she was not a virgin. At least, technically she was not a virgin. But
melted wax is not a man, and Tomas’ penis was...well...his penis was huge, much larger than a stick of
paraffin with a wick at one end.

It hurt. The entry, even those first few inches, was quite painful.

She cried out and bucked, inadvertently dislodging him.

He pulled back.

Hysterical, sobbing at what a mess she was making of things, she crawled away from him on the bed,
and turned her back, needing to lick her wounds alone as she had always done in the past.

A drawer was opened and closed again.

“I'll use lube.” Tomas said, his voice strained.

Covering her private parts with her arms, she looked back over her shoulder. “Please Tomas, let me
explain. It's only that I'm not used to...” She stopped, unable to go on.

“A man like me,” he completed for her. “I know, ruca,” he said sadly.

That isn't what she wanted to say! She wanted to admit the painful secret of her first marriage, to tell him
of the pathetic failure of her sexual relationship with Matt.That her husband had placed celibacy before
her, that as a result of his zealousness, they had lived as brother and sister, not husband and wife. She
wanted to reveal that though she'd been married for five years, she'd never had sex! But it seemed so
disloyal to Matt-

'Let's not talk,’ Tomas had told her once not too long ago. ‘We get in trouble when we try to make the
other understand where we're coming from...’

Was he right?

She had to accept reality; for whatever reason, communication did not come easily for them.

But Tomas was not like Matt! There was a physical attraction between them that neither could deny.

Wasn't sex the most profound communication of all?

She backed up to her husband, bottom first, to where he was kneeling on the bed.

“Steady,” he said, running a palm over her spine. “Steady, ruca. You just need some help. I thought you
were wet enough, but I guess you're not. Lube will make it easier.”

Her husband reached between her spread legs, gently inserting an oiled finger into her vagina, followed
by a second. He was patiently and considerately coating her with the lubricant, assuaging the path he
would take, because in her inexperience, she was too tense about failing him to accept him unaided into
her body.

After he finished lubricating her vagina, he helped her roll over on her back again

“Put you knees up to your chest,” he said.

“Like this?” she asked hitching her bottom up off the bed.

His palm smoothed up her leg. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Despite her best intentions, her knees started to close.

“Now don't close up on me, honey. I'll need it nice and open,” he said, widening her thighs and then
making a fast approach. “Don't fret none about my size; I promise I won't put it in you all the way,” he
soothed, fingering her clitoris.

“No! I want you to.”

“You're too tight,” he said, starting to ease the enormous head of his penis into her lubed opening.
“Fuck, Sera! Your slit-it's milking me already. Just like when you put me in your mouth and I lost control.
I won't be able to hold on long now either...”

Is that why it had ended so quickly? Her husband had lost control?

Miraculously, upon hearing the real reason for his speedy withdrawal-that he wasn't apathetic to her, that
she'd excited him so much he'd ejaculated before he'd wanted to—she relaxed. And when she did that,
the entry didn't hurt as much as it had before. There was discomfort, as her body tried to accommodate
his body, and the stretch of her flesh did bring tears to her eyes, but she knew she could do it.

“Don't cry, baby,” he whispered, licking the salty moisture away with his tongue. “Please don't cry. It
must be tough, you know, the first time with another man. It's okay. I don't expect nothing from you. I
know how much you loved Matt.”

This was her first time with any man! She wanted to scream. And no, she hadn't loved Matt! That was
her dreadful secret. She had never loved her husband.

She had tried. Oh, how she had tried to love the man who couldn't bring himself to touch her, but she
had failed.

Even without the sex, if she could have only loved him, maybe then they both wouldn't have been so
miserable, maybe then he would've found the strength to fight back against the disease that had claimed

his life.

But he hadn't fought back, though she'd begged him to as she nursed him night and day; Matt had given
into the disease. And she couldn't help but think that Matt had chosen death as a means to escape her
and the marriage he hadn't wanted. Cholera hadn't killed her husband; she had killed him by asking him
to marry her.

“So good,” Tomas rasped as he started to move shallowly within the tight clasp of her body. “So good,”
he told her, sliding in and out of her vagina with the most gentle of strokes. “Ah! You feel so good, so
good, so good. You're too good for me.”

She held onto to Tomas’ shoulders as he grimly pumped between her legs. As he thrust, deeper now,
faster now, the tension inside her body built and grew; her raised thighs went taut; her face set in a
grimace. Release was just on the other side of the wall. Could she scale it?

“Let go,” Tomas whispered. “Just let it all go, honey. Cry. You need to. I don't mind.”

At his words, the fist inside her unclenched, and tears spilled from her eyes as a dam within her burst.
She did scream then, a release that rocked her body.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was almost dawn, and Sera was moving in on his dick again.

She'd been at him all night, touching him with her hands, her mouth, wiggling her fine ass up and down
the length of his all too willing cock. And though he knew he shouldn't, that it was too many times, that
she had to be sore, he couldn't stop himself from going between her legs each time she had whispered,
“Please?” in his ear. As a last resort he'd pulled on his jeans, hoping the denim barrier would convince his
cock to settle down.

The jeans hadn't worked.

“Honey, you need to rest,” he said, carefully flipping her so that she was on her side and he was flanking
her.

Big mistake. Right away, her bare buttocks snuggled up to his crotch.

Tomas had to admit that he had a real thing for Sera's bottom. His bride's lush ass was the kind of ass
that most men could only dreamed of snuggling up to. He loved her ass. He could hardly wait to love her
ass. Would she let him?

Upon reconsideration, Tomas decided he didn't want his bride just to let him. He wanted her to want it
too, and not just as a way to escape her grief over the man she still loved. He wanted her to genuinely
want it with him.

As he was thinking about how much something like that would mean to him, Sera pulled one hand over
her pert little breast. The other hand she grabbed and placed between her legs so that it covered her
pussy. Then, she raised her leg, bent her knee. No mistaking that invitation.

“Open it up for me,” he whispered.

“Like this?” she asked, widening her slit with two fingers, so that her plump and swollen clit was
displayed.

“Your pussy is so dainty,” he said, at first, only looking. “Just seeing your clit like that makes me want
to...to...shit...I can't say it.”

“Well, I know what I want. I want you to ravage me,” was her purred reply.

Only looking soon led to only touching. Just the sweet outside lips at first. But the more he thought about
Sera's sweet bottom, which was now wiggling up and down his crotch, the higher his index finger worked
itself up inside her. Pretty soon it was moving deep inside her, his thumb on her clit, and he was
romancing her pussy all over again.

She was plenty swollen, but she didn't tell him to quit. Sera was wet, her body hummin', her need taking
over.

Tomas didn't delude himself. Sera's need wasn't really for him; her need was for sex with her husband.

He had needs too. For the first time in his life, he needed a woman, couldn't get enough of a woman.
Four times, and he wanted her again.

Sera raised her leg higher and widened her bent knee so that he could get at her if he was so inclined.

He was inclined. Very inclined. Though it didn't sit well knowing that at least part of his wife's passion for
his cock was out of a misguided sense of obligation. It was one thing being used for sex, another thing
realizing that the lady thought she owed him.

“Let's go out to the rooftop,” he said, reluctantly withdrawing his finger from her wet folds before he got
the real bad idea of unzipping his fly again. “We can catch the sun come up.”

“But I thought you wanted to...”

“You need a break, honey,” he said, helping her up out of the bed.

To be on the safe side, he palmed a couple of condoms in case he filled that break in with another sex
attack. When it comes to sex, relaxed dress codes don't apply. A gentleman doesn't go inside unless he
suits up first.

Sera reached for the gauzy dress.

“You don't need that,” God help him, he said.

“All right.” This time, Sera blushed only a little.

His palm stayed on her buttock, riding the first swell, as Sera led the way up the stairs onto the roof
garden.

Tomas knew Sera liked plants, so he'd dug a ton of flowers into a rooftop garden as soon as he decided
they'd be honeymooning at the condo. The work had all been worth it when, after giving her the tour,
Sera stopped against the wall that overlooked the city, turned to him with a smile, and said, “It's so

beautiful here.”

He felt his chest swell with pride.

And when he said, “Thanks” and took her lips, something else swelled too. Not that it had been exactly
deflated before. Good thing he was wearing the jeans.

But then the kiss deepened and heated, and his hands started moving, and pretty soon he was groaning,
“Open your legs,” against a pair of clinging lips, and his finger was pushing into a silky wet pussy all over
again. He had to have one part of himself inside Sera.

She looked shyly around.

“No one can see,” he told her, though at that moment he didn't care if every voyeur in Fenton could see
him making love to his wife. They were married; it was allowed. Too bad. And he had to say that being
outside on the roof, with nothing but blue sky overhead, was a real turn on.

Sera must have thought so too, because even though she was a cute shade of pink, her thighs opened for
him.

And fuck, he was there. Right there. At her clit. His thumb working it and Sera writhing to the beat.

“Please Tomas. Please, Tomas.”

“Say it,” he ordered, needing to hear her speak the words.

“Come into me.”

“Here?” he asked, because a gentleman always makes sure.

She grinned. “No. In the elevator.”

“Not the elevator again,” he groaned.

“Yes. Please! Pretty please?”

“You just want your own collection of porn pics.”

“Not at all,” she protested. “I just like doing it while we're going up and down.”

“That's me going up and down, woman, not the damn elevator,” he growled. “And the answer is N-O!
Hell, no. You want it, we do it out here on the roof, like regular respectable married folks.”

He didn't understand why she started to laugh, and he didn't much care. She was happy, and that's all
that mattered.

She'd cried during the first time.

It just about broke his heart to hear her weep. Hurt his masculine pride a little too to know his bride was
thinking of her first husband, not her new husband, while he was inside her body. But he did understand.
Sex. Tears. Sera needed to do both.

“This is the very last time,” he told his bride, and lifted her atop the table where they'd had their wedding
dinner.

He stepped between her legs, his whole insides melting at the greedy expression on Sera's face, and
eased his way in.

His bride was having none of it. She dragged him closer, two hands in a stranglehold around his neck,
forcing to make a faster connection.

“Stop it, woman,” he rebuked. “You're not getting all of it. I don't care how much you pout. I've got
over ten inches of meat here and you ain't got that much room.” He kissed her lips and put only half of
what he had to her. “Now easy. I know you want it hard, but let me do you sweet.”

He always wanted to do Sera sweet and gentle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tomas wasn't home yet from the site.

While Sera waited for her always on-time husband to rush through the door, she stirred candy mix-ins
into the brownie batter, careful not to let any fall on the shiny new emerald-green linoleum floor.

Tomas had insisted upon the impractical color, saying the green perfectly matched her eyes.

That was her husband: Her eyes were a very common shade of hazel.

When she'd still requested a dark color, better to hide the dirt, he said the linoleum was a remnant, that
he'd only discard it if she didn't take it off his hands. A preposterous fib, of course, and she didn't believe
him for a minute, but she was a practical woman and so she accepted the inlaid gladly; money not spent
on the small apartment at the school would go towards classroom equipment.

Sera stirred some more candy into the brownie batter.

Her husband had to have the world's largest sweet tooth. She was sure it came from him not having
homemade goodies as a youngster. Tomas hadn't had any treats as a kid, and now that he was an adult,
he was making up for lost time.

He was making up for lost time in the wardrobe department as well. Tomas was buying dressy clothes,
suits and ties and footwear that weren't boots. He had also added several wild Hawaiian shirts in floral
patterns of bright reds and yellows to his everyday wear of generic black tee shirts and jeans. He'd cut
his hair too and started to shave on a regular basis. He looked like a changed man.

He looked like a changed man, and she felt like a changed woman.

Gradually, her guilt over Matt's death was lessening. Slowly but surely, she'd realized that she'd done all
she could to make him happy; she'd fought to save his life when he'd sickened and, she'd tried
desperately to love him. Yes, their marriage was a terrible mistake, but their friendship was no mistake.
From the beginning, there was a genuine fondness between them that their sad wedding night hadn't
blighted. It was time to let go, and move on with life.

With the diminishing of her pervasive sadness, her joy in little things had started to return. She was
sleeping better-attributed by her husband to the great sex he was giving her. And more and more, she
thought about all the happy times she'd spent in India; she no longer dwelled on only that tragic last year.

At night, after dinner, she'd tell Tomas about the mission. He never said much; he'd just mainly listen. It
helped to talk. Not that she told Tomas about her relationship with Matt; she couldn't bring herself to do
that.

Often, her husband would sit beside her on the piano bench at night as she practiced the scales, intently
following her fingers. Then, he'd mimic her hand movements on the keys. He was a quick study. He also
had excellent pitch. There was no doubt about it, Tomas had natural ability. His talent should have
received nurturing as a child, and it frustrated her that his gift had gone neglected. Naturally, she'd offered
him private instruction-

He'd declined with a little crooked smile, saying, ‘Someday, babe. Someday I'll learn the keys.’

When? When would Tomas Ruiz get his chance? When would he get what he wanted out of life?

Now!

She'd make it happen now, because it wasn't money Tomas Ruiz wanted. What he wanted was
something money couldn't buy: Respectability.

Call it arrogance, but when she saw an opportunity, she grabbed it and held on tight. Fred Connor was
her husband's opportunity to prove himself in Fenton, his chance to gain respect. Although he never told
her so, she had seen that architectural model at the trailer. She knew Tomas wanted the Riverfront
Project.

Her husband was getting that project!

He need never know that she had used her influence with Fred Connor to see that his bid got the
recognition it deserved.

As she looked out the bay window, the new one Tomas had installed to give her a better view of her
backyard garden, she was content in the knowledge that she had acted in her husband's best interests in
swaying Fred's vote to Tomas’ side.

And there he was now! The man of her thoughts slammed out the door of his truck and race towards the
house. Sensing her presence at the window, he looked up at her and waved.

Her husband was a self-made man, a self-designed man. He could have given up when he was a kid, but
he hadn't. He was driven to make something out of himself, to carve a niche in a world that had
abandoned him years ago. And it wasn't enough that he was bringing himself up. No, he was bringing
others up with him. Tomas Ruiz had a mission.

Sera now knew whom Tomas employed at Ruiz Construction. She had done her research. The
predominance of men and women on his payroll were from the Southside. Very few had a high school
degree. Many had been in trouble. Tomas ran an apprenticeship program on his site where these
individuals were given a second shot at making a success of their lives. How could she not want to be a
part of all that?

Tomas never talked about what he was doing to make a difference on the Southside; that wasn't his
style. But Sera knew. She knew all about Tomas Ruiz and what he had accomplished and what he still
wanted to accomplish.

Racing through the kitchen door, Tomas let out a whoop when he saw what she was doing. “Making
brownies?”

“For dessert,” she said, slapping his hand away. Then, “Tomas-”

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I saw Fred Connor today.”

The grinning man became suddenly serious. “Oh?”

“He wants to see all the changes at the school. So—I invited Fred and his wife over to a dinner party to
show them off. I hope that's all right?”

“Sure. That's fine. When?”

“Next week. Will you be able to make it? I know how busy you are with work, and I know it's a
tremendous imposition, but I'd feel so much better if you could be here with me when I give Mr. and
Mrs. Connor the tour. I can explain the musical end of things, but I'm hopeless when it comes to blue
prints. Those building codes lose me. Please say you'll be here to help me?”

“I'll see what I can do, Seraphina,” he replied.

So-they were back to Seraphina again.

She'd see about that!

Sera undid her apron. “We have thirty minutes until supper.”

“Oh, yeah? That long, eh? What will we ever do?”

She started to undo her blouse, one button at a time. “I can't wait for bedtime. That's hours away yet.”

He chuckled, getting out of his bright floral shirt, yanking it over his head with a complete disregard for
the buttons. “Sera, you can never wait for bedtime, so we never do.” He eyed the triangle of bare skin at
her throat. “You better not be wearing a bra.”

“Not since you told me not to.”

“Panties?”

She shook her head. “Un-un. Not since our wedding night, a week ago today.”

“I'll need proof of your wifely obedience.”

There was that dominance in his tone again, the possessiveness that thrilled her. “What kind of proof?”

she asked guilelessly, although after seven days of marriage she was not so innocent any more. She knew
the evidence he would require.

“Lift your skirt,” he said.

“But I have to put the brownies in the oven.”

“So?” was his husbandly reply. “And don't forget to get your slip out of the way.”

Knowing she was wearing neither panties nor stockings underneath, Sera lifted her skirt and slip.

“Higher,” a frustrated male voice said from behind her.

Throwing caution to the wind, she lifted the skirt and slip to her waist, and then bending over, slid the
pan one-handed into the oven, placing it on the middle rack.

The oven was hot, but not as hot as her face when a hand cupped her derriere. “Have I ever told you
how much I love your ass?”

Only every day...

“You might have mentioned it once or twice in passing.” She closed the oven door, set the timer for
thirty minutes, and turned.

Tomas, his chest now gloriously bare, his brown skin glowing with virile good health, had backed up to a
chair and taken a seat. His tan trousers were open at the fly, revealing the nest of crisp black hair that
cushioned the weight of his enormously jutting penis. He'd already installed a condom.

She licked her lips in anticipation.

“C'mere,” he said, crooking a finger.

She did better than that; she straddled him. One leg on either side of his lap, she came down on his erect
penis. All the way down, taking all of him.

Her eyes went wide; he'd filled her completely with nothing left over.

Watching her squirm, watching her try to adjust to the pressure inside her, he asked softly. “Does it
hurt?”

“Yes,” she said honestly.

“Can you take it?”

Too pained to speak, she nodded. He'd never given over full control to her before; he'd never allowed
himself a connection this deep. He'd always held back.

She understood why; she was painfully engorged. Her vagina was throbbing. Her opening was stretched
to the limit. But she had accommodated him. Rising above her discomfort, was a sense of womanly pride
in the accomplishment.

“Take off the blouse before you start. I want to see your pretty tits bounce up and down when you ride
me.”

At his words, at the image those words created, her vagina gushed wet, her natural lubricant making
their bond much less uncomfortable.

“Better now?” he asked knowingly.

Why he'd done that intentionally! He'd purposefully used language to get her hot. And it had worked.
Her passage had moistened and she was able to take him without discomfort. “Much better. Thank you,”
she said, stripping off her blouse.

Dipping his jaw, he nuzzled her nipple, and their bond went from merely bearable to absolutely
wonderful.

He looked up from what he was doing and grinned. “I think you're ready to begin. But take it slow at
first.”

She didn't want slow, she wanted fast.

Ignoring his dictate, she went at full throttle.

And gasped.

He spanked her bare bottom. “What I tell you? Get sore now, and the playground closes for fun later
tonight.”

After that, she heeded his instruction, finding a tempo that suited them both.

But in this position, her climax was taking longer than usual-when he was in charge, usually her first one
was achieved right at penetration. This time, though she was cresting, she couldn't quite get over to the
other side.

“Tomas,” she groaned, her body jerking up and down the length of his shaft, “I don't think I can...”

“You can,” he crooned. “You're the wettest cunt I've ever had.” His palm cupped her pumping bottom.

She started to come.

“That's right, your cunt is so pretty, so wet. Feel me inside you. That's right, honey. Let go.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she screamed.

“Christ! Sera,” he groaned as he came with her

* * * *

Dressed in a suit, her husband looked like the successful businessman he was, as he stood by her side at
the bay window, watching the Connors to arrive.

“Looks like they like the flowers we planted,” she whispered, peering out at the middle-aged couple as

they made their way along the winding brick walk to the mansion's front door.

“Sera, before the Connors get inside, I want to tell you something. I'm glad about the music school. The
Southside needs a woman like you.”

“Oh, Tomas. That means so much to me.”

Sera's eyes were teary as she flung open the front door and greeted their dinner guests.

“Please come in,” she said warmly, and kissing both her dear friends on the cheek. Then turning, she
performed the introductions. “Helen, Fred, I'd like you to meet my husband, Tomas Ruiz.”

Fred Connor pumped Tomas's hand. “Congratulations! I had no idea you two even knew one another,
and now you're married.”

“A month today.” Sera touched Tomas on the shoulder, then did the required honeymoon giggling. “It
was love at first sight. You might even say Tomas swept me off my feet.” She then went on to relate the
incident about the window cleaner incident...but leaving some of the details out.

Fred looked around the house. “The old Monroe place looks great! Tomas, you've done an outstanding
job. The neighborhood kids will love coming here to take lessons.”

Seraphina smiled. “I can't wait for September. I've missed teaching so. And did I tell you, Fred, that
Tomas is not only donating this mansion, he's personally funding all the required renovations?”

Fred clapped Tomas on the back. “It seems you and I have a lot to talk about, son.”

After dinner, while Helen and she chatted in the kitchen, the two men went outside. From the bay
window, she could see them talking animatedly, and Sera was quite sure their discussion wasn't entirely
about the school. She couldn't have been more pleased.

But she was not a sentimental woman, and feeling pleased wasn't good enough; tomorrow she intended
to follow up the dinner party with a phone call to Fred Connor about her husband's bid on the Riverfront
Project.

They were saying their goodnights at the front door, and Fred gave Tomas another clap on the back. “I
want you to come sailing with me real soon.”

When the door finally closed behind their dinner guests, Tomas turned to her. “What do I know about
sailing? People who grow up on the Southside do not sail.”

Sera could have cried at his self-defeating mentality. Every once in a while, her husband came out with
these negative, stereotypical put-downs! When would Tomas realize that people who grew up on the
Southside could do anything they set their minds to?

“You seemed to have a lot to discuss with Fred Connor,” Sera said aloud as she loaded the new
dishwasher Tomas insisted she have, expressing the thought she'd meant to keep to herself.

He came up behind her. “Let's not talk about the Connors any more tonight,” Tomas said, adroitly
changing the subject.

Like all the clothing her husband had purchased for her, the raw silk dress she wore tonight was
understated in style, both elegant and ladylike in its simplicity. The jewel shade of chartreuse pleased the
eye of the observer, while the cloth felt pleasingly cool against the skin of wearer, especially if the wearer
wore little underneath.

Tonight, she wore only a garter belt and silk stockings underneath, both items hand-selected by her
husband.

The door to the dishwasher was closed, she was turned to face him, her dress was raised, a large hand
slipped between her eagerly opening thighs.

“You drive me wild,” he growled, entwining his fingers in her pubic curls.

Her vulva was sampled with a long finger. “Your pussy is already damp.”

Actually, she was more than damp; she was drenched in her own excitement. Her anticipation was
compounded by the fact that she hadn't made love to her husband since early that morning.

Tomas, realizing that she couldn't go through an entire day without him, had made a habit of sneaking
home for a ‘quickie’ at noon. Today, though, he'd telephoned to say he couldn't make their date, as he
was tied up in a business meeting.

No midday love play meant she was dying for him now.

“Why didn't you use the vibrator I got you?” he asked, separating her labia and beginning to stroke her;
his thumb found and rubbed her clitoris.

“It's not the same when I do it without you,” she gasped, her hips rolling.

“From now on, if I can't be here, you masturbate.”

“Tomas, I'd rather wait for you.”

His hand went behind her; her bared bottom was spanked. “Do what I say, wife.”

Saying the word ‘wife’ like that, in that dominant tone, was enough to trigger orgasm. When combined
with the sharp spank on her bottom, it was just too much. She wailed out her climax on a shrill note of
pleasure.

“You must have been uncomfortable all day. If I can't come home at lunch to do you, from now on, use
the damn toy,” he said leading her by the hand to their bedroom.

“Yes. All right,” she said when she could.

Tomas thought she'd only missed the sex today. But it was him. She'd missed Tomas. Her husband. The
man she loved.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tomas was floundering.

After the ten-course meal—everything from soup to nuts and some stuff in between he couldn't identify
but ate anyway so as not to appear rude-all he wanted to do was take Sera back home to their
bedroom.

It was nice that Fred Connor was throwing them a big fancy wedding reception at his home and all. And
since anyone who was anyone in Fenton was in attendance, the party was a great public relations
opportunity for his company. Too bad the big to-do was wasted on him; getting Sera naked was the only
thing on his mind.

First, was the cocktail hour; next came the dinner; followed by hours of post dessert chit-chat with
coffee. Tomas was just idling ‘til bedtime.

Some hotshot bank president pal of Fred Connor's had stolen Sera after the meal. Then, she was
introduced to an orchestral conductor whose name Tomas couldn't pronounce. After that, an
out-of-state, real estate developer had monopolized her. Clean out of clever dinner talk, Tomas started
looking around for places to hide.

He found a dark spot outside on the patio. Every so often, he'd re-emerge from his hidey-hole, ditch the
moping expression, plaster on a phony party smile, and take a spin around the room to check on Sera,
see how she was doing.

How Sera was doing, was just fine. Every time he checked, his bride was talking and laughing, looking
completely at ease and breathtakingly beautiful. Invariably, she'd look up and see him, and she'd wander
back his way, some interesting party guest in tow. Linking her slender arm through his, she'd prompt him
to contribute to whatever scintillating discussion they'd been having.

Tomas could've cared less about scintillating; there was a king-sized mattress waiting for them at home.

So, he'd just stand there and nod, his smile muscles aching, hoping he looked interested, and all the while
just a little too aware that Sera fit into Fred Connor's circle of acquaintances in a way he never would.

By midnight, the party was gnawing at his nerve endings. But Sera was having a good time, so for her
sake, Tomas nodded, and smiled, and nodded some more, his eyes darting for his escape route.

His bride eventually found his hiding spot outside on the patio.

“There you are,” Sera called through the bushes. “What are you doing out here all by yourself? We all
missed you!”

Tomas laughed dryly. “Yeah. Right.”

“No, we did, honestly. The Dilmont's are discussing the charity auction they're hosting next year. Maybe
you could give us some ideas.”

He laughed some more. “You gotta be kidding!”

“Well, I thought maybe you could-”

Drawing her into the bushes with him, he hushed her lips with a kiss. “I don't belong in there, baby. You
do, but I'm like a fish out of water.”

After the kiss, then another, he nodded to the door. “You go back in. I need to breathe some fresh air.”

“It is rather aromatic in there. All those clashing fragrances.” She whispered. “Let's sneak out early, shall
we?”

“Baby, I like how you think.” His eyes hooded and heated, his interest falling on Sera's plain black
dress.

He'd picked out the cocktail dress because he thought Sera would like the style. The dress looked
simple enough, but upon closer inspection-and he was very closely inspecting it-there was nothing simple
about a dress that managed to reveal a woman's delicate curves while maintaining her lady-like dignity.

Tomas wrapped his lady up in his arms and took her mouth again, but this time in a hot and demanding
kiss.

He was breathing hard, feeling reckless, when he broke it off. His voice tightening, he said, “I can't wait
to get you home, lady. The things I'm gonna do to you tonight-”

“Why wait?” she said, presenting him with her back. “This little corner is dark and private.”

“Here?” he asked, but his hand was already pulling on her back zipper. “What if someone comes out
here for some air too?”

Her green eyes twinkled wickedly. “The risk of getting caught is half the fun.”

“You know-you're an exhibitionist.” He eyed her fine ass with real appreciation.

“And you're a voyeur,” she threw back over her shoulder.

“I am not!” he heatedly disagreed.

“You watch me. Only last week, I caught you staring at me through a crack in the door when I was
bathing in the tub.”

“I knew you knew I was watching, so that doesn't count. And you put on quite the little show for me, my
little exhibitionist wife, with your new bath toy dildo.”

She laughed. “I did, didn't I?”

“Next time, don't put it on HIGH. The friction is too much.” He cradled her mons. “This is my pussy,
and I don't want it getting bruised.”

“An exhibitionist and a voyeur.” She twittered. “Goodness! We're the perfect match.” She turned and
faced him; her tricky hands went to the zipper on his tux. “Now let's get this show on the road.”

He swatted at her groping hands. “Sera, what if someone hears? You know you're a screamer.”

She shimmied out of the little black number and let it fall to the patio, standing as pale and white as a
marble statue in the moonlight. “The band will cover it,” she said.

He loved his wife's breasts and told her so. In Spanish.

“What did you say?” she asked, shyly.

“Loosely translated, it means your womanliness brings me to my knees with longing, and that I want to
suckle at your nipples.”

“Why, thank you, sir. There's nothing that pleasures a lady more than an ode to her bosoms.” She
fanned her hand back and forth in front of her face like a southern belle, then grinned. “Unless, of course,
it's an extended bout of raunchy sex in the bushes at a cocktail party.” When she fluttered her lashes at
him, he swore he could smell mint juleps in the air. “I do believe, Mr. Ruiz, you can use your poetic
license on me any time you so desire.”

He finished doing what she'd started. Once the bulge in his tuxedo trousers was released, he took a
condom out of his pocket, and sheathed himself. Then, two hands at Sera's waist-his wife was such a tiny
slip of a thing—he picked her feet off the blue stone patio floor.

“Hook your legs around my hips,” he growled as she kicked free of her stilettos.

With a flex of his knees he was up and in, moving before her high heels fell to the ground.

“Mmm,” she purred, meeting his thrusts with thrusts of her own.

“That's right, baby, that's right. So good,” he soothed, his big palms shelving her lush bottom.

When he fingered her anus, she started, eyes wide and fluttering. “Tomas?” she questioned.

“Shh, pretty baby, it's all right,” he said.

It was the first time he had ever touched so deeply in the groove between her buttocks. He didn't know
why he'd decided to do it then, unless it was to prove to himself that she belonged to him, that she was
his, whether she was too good for him or not.

While she held herself still for him, he rubbed her back opening possessively. Taking her mouth, his
pinkie finger pressed against the ring, then entered the delicate dimple.

Sera was his. Not Matt's. His! She'd loved her husband but she belonged to him now. She screamed for
him.

When would Sera want him, freely want him, not out of a damn sense of obligation, not because he was
acting as a substitute for a dead man? When would Sera want him for something other than sex?

Never.

Sera would never want him in any other way, for anything more than sex, because she didn't love him.

Then, dammit, if all they had going on between them was sex, he would at least own her body, every
inch of her body.

With a groan, he moved his finger in and out her anus, taking it slow but insistent, as his cock moved fast
in her pussy and his tongue penetrated her mouth to the throat, all three orifices were under his

possession at the same time.

* * * *

Tomas had only just finished helping Sera back into her dress, when their host called out their names:
“Seraphina? Tomas? Are you out there on the patio?”

His bride jumped out of his embrace where he'd been calming her post-climactic tremors. “Over here,
Fred. Tomas and I are...uh...looking at the moon.”

Tomas ground his teeth in frustration. When would this night be over? When was he gonna get his wife
all to himself? He fuckin’ hated sharing her!

“I've been searching all over for you. If Tomas wouldn't mind, Seraphina, we'd love to have you sing.”

Tomas nodded, but reluctantly; there was that bed to consider.

“Since Tomas agrees, I'd love to,” Sera replied. “Do you still have your Steinway, Fred?”

“If I didn't, I'd be on the phone this very instant to have one delivered. It's in the living room,” Fred said
and led Sera away.

Tomas followed.

A hush fell over the walnut paneled room as Sera introduced her first song.

“When I was a little girl, every Sunday I'd sing hymns in church. The songs I loved best were the ones
about joy and love and hope. If you don't mind, I'd like to play some old-fashioned romantic music
tonight. I'm in that kind of mood.”

“Seraphina is quite a woman,” Fred said, joining Tomas where he stood at the back of the room. “She'll
be an asset to you in your climb to the top. I hope you appreciate the diamond you have there, son.”

“I do,” Tomas said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tomas appreciated all too well that Sera was with him, a poor kid from a bad background, without Fred
Connor having to tell him. And as Sera bedazzled her audience of overdressed guests with her
straight-from-the-heart love songs, Tomas Ruiz was telling himself all over again that he didn't deserve
her.

The fact didn't keep him from holding her eyes when she searched out his face in her crowd of admirers.

Sera was forever calling him charming and poetic, which he supposed was a nice way of saying he was
being insincere, but there was nothing at all charming about the urgency in his loins. There was nothing
poetic about his need to have Sera. It was pretty basic.

Sex was the only weapon he had to fight for her affection.

Sera had loved Matt. She still loved Matt. But her husband was dead and gone, while he, on the other
hand, was strong and healthy and lusty; he could give Sera exactly what she needed, as often as she
needed it.

Sex was what she wanted from him, and sex was all he really had to offer a lady like her, anyway. And
he didn't want anything to blow what they had going, not even the good news he'd gotten about his bid
on the Riverfront Project.

It was funny that Sera never once asked what he and Fred Connor had to discuss. She seemed to
accept that they were just talking about the music school. He'd have to tell her eventually about the
Riverfront Project. But not now. Not yet. Not when everything was going so well between them, not
when he was out of his head with wanting her-

As Sera moved on to a song about family love, an image of a baby crept into his head. Tomas blinked
and the image flashed forward a few years, and the baby turned into a little girl practicing scales on a
piano. She was such a pretty little thing

Shit! Where the hell had that come from?

Damned perverse is what it was. He was in a relationship with a woman, a relationship based only on
mutual expediency, on sex, and he was thinking about stuff that had nothing to do with sex. What did
babies have to do with what a man and woman did together in bed?

Not much these days.

He should have his head examined. Sera was still grieving for her husband, and here he was thinking
about a future neither of them wanted. Stupid daydreams.

Only, they didn't seem stupid. They didn't seem like daydreams either. Not any more. Like a lightening
bolt it hit him. He wanted children. With Sera. There was nothing he'd like more than to see his son
cradled against Sera's beautiful breasts. She'd make a wonderful mother.

Tomas hadn't exactly been a wanted kid. Any child of his was going to be wanted right from the moment
of conception, by both parents.

If he accidentally on purpose got Sera pregnant as a way to bind her to him, would she accept the little
brown baby growing in her belly? Or would she resent the pregnancy since she considered this marriage
temporary?

He didn't. Not any more. He was in this for the long haul. The marriage wasn't temporary to him any
more. As far as Tomas was concerned, this marriage was for keeps.

He loved Sera.

Tomas Ruiz loved his wife! Wanted to have a family with his wife. What a scandal. And what would the
good people of Fenton say?

As Tomas was coming to grips with his love for his wife, with his hope of having a family someday with
Sera, Fred tapped him on the shoulder. “I think this town made a sound decision awarding Ruiz
Construction the Riverfront Project. I, for one, was more than satisfied with your plans and your basic
philosophy about the direction that Fenton should take in the future. Now that you have the city council's
approval and the contracts are all signed we can put the news in the paper.”

“Thank you, sir. You won't be sorry.”

“Son,” the shrewd businessman said, man to man, “it looks to me as though you and your bride have a
lot of celebrating to do tonight.”

There was nothing Tomas would've liked more. Only he hadn't told Sera the good news because he
hadn't told his wife anything about the project. She was still in the dark about all of it.

If not for the Monroe mansion, they never would have met. If not for the Riverfront Project, they never
would have married. And now that they'd both gotten what they wanted, there was no further reason for
them to stay together.

Except sex.

Sera only needed him for sex.

Her last song finished, his wife left the piano and crossed the room.

Sera smiled. “What are you two men talking about way back here?”

Fred beamed. “I was just congratulating your husband again.”

“Oh?” Sera's smile never wavered.

In horror, Tomas pivoted to Fred.

Chingadero! Fuck it! His brain screamed. Don't tell her now! Not this way. Let me tell her later, in
private! Let me make her understand that I didn't use her ...

But Fred kept right on talking. “After all, Tomas’ successful bid on Fenton's downtown renovation
project merits more than one round of congratulations! Sera, you must have been thrilled when he told
you!”

Sera's face was the picture of poise. “Well, naturally, I was thrilled. And thank you once again, Fred.”

Thrilled?

How could she have been thrilled about something she knew nothing about?

He hadn't told her he'd placed a bid on the Riverfront Project! In fact, he'd lied and covered up the
model in his trailer when she'd asked him about it. How could she be thrilled?

“As I told the city council, any man who has this lady's full endorsement, as you do, Tomas, has mine as
well. Your wife really believes in you, son, and your dreams for the future of Fenton. She told me all
about the way you donated your time to the music school, about how you've been working days and
nights to ensure its September opening—why that's commendable. It's refreshing to see such dedication.
But your commitment to the school isn't what swayed me. You had my vote for the Riverfront Project
because of your work on the Southside. I didn't realize all you've been doing over there. I'm so glad
Seraphina brought it to my attention. And your architectural rendition of your vision for the waterfront is
nothing short of genius. When Seraphina brought me to your trailer and showed me that model, I knew
then that you were the only man for the job. Isn't that right Seraphina?”

“That's right, Fred. I fell in love with Tomas's plan the first time he showed it to me too.”

Showed it to her?

He'd never showed it to her! He'd tried to keep her away from it. He'd lied to her about it. What was
she talking about?”

Sera continued. “You know how much antiques mean to me, Fred, and when I found out that my
husband proposed the rehab of the existing downtown district, rather than its demolition, I just had to
bring his bid to your attention.”

“And I'm glad that you did, otherwise I might not have given Tomas’ proposal the serious attention it
deserved. You two make a great little team.”

“Yes, we do,” Sera agreed, all happy smiles.

“The stores downtown are turn of the century buildings. I'd like to see their flavor preserved. Thank you
once again for your vote of confidence, sir,” Tomas said, carefully avoiding eye contact with Sera.

Fred shook Tomas's hand. “I'll let you two newlyweds get on with your own celebrating now!”

When Fred left, Tomas turned to his wife, eyes blazing. “We're leaving. We'll discuss this at home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

How could Sera have gone behind his back like that? How could she have betrayed his trust? And
smile about it too?

She must have known all along about his bid and she'd never let on to him! She would've let him believe
that he got the bid on his own when he hadn't gotten the bid on his own!

They drove home in silence.

His wife turned to him as soon as the front door to the mansion was closed.

“Tomas, we all have dreams,” Sera said softly. “I understand what a person will do to make them a
reality. After all your hard work on behalf of the Southside, you deserve to see your vision realized. I'm
happy your dreams are about to come true.”

His dreams weren't coming true! His dreams were toppling around his ears.

He wanted Sera to care about him, to be proud of him, not to take pity on him. He didn't want to be
anyone's object of sympathy.

Anger flying, he shouted, “You knew!”

“I knew,” she calmly replied.

“And you never said a thing!”

“I never said a thing.”

“Why?” he choked out.

“I kept waiting for you to tell me. You never did.”

“I didn't want you to think I was using you to meet Fred Connor. I didn't want to hurt you. That's why I
didn't tell you,” he said justifying the unjustifiable.

“I believe it's true that you didn't want to hurt me. I also believe you didn't trust me enough to tell me the
truth. From the moment we met, you misjudged me and my intentions. You've always considered me too
shallow to understand where you're coming from. Do you think I don't know how torn, how ambivalent,
you've felt about our relationship?”

“Only because you were a good woman and I had a lousy reputation. And then I got hopeful, and I
began to think that maybe some of your goodness might rub off on me-”

“The bad boy reformed by the good girl.” She laughed. “What a joke! You're twice as good as I'll ever
be, Tomas, but you're only half as cynical.” She shook her head. “Do you think I would sit idly by and let
your dreams crash and burn without doing everything in my power to prevent that from happening?

“I knew a man who could help you realize your goal. I knew I could influence him with one brief phone
call. I made that phone call. And I'm not sorry I did. That's how things get done in this world. It's not
luck-”

“No, it's who you fuck!”

At her gasp, Tomas raked his hands through his hair. “I fucked you, Sera, but I never once screwed you
like you screwed me. You went behind my back!”

“You gave me no other choice.”

“I could have gotten that bid on my own!”

“You did get that bid on your own. I saw your model of the project. Your plans are amazing. The scope
of your vision awes me. I merely brought your ideas to Fred's attention. Your design spoke for itself.”

“That dinner with the Connors-it wasn't about the school at all, was it?”

“Fred wanted to meet you as much as you wanted to meet him. I merely arranged for it to happen in a
place that you would feel most comfortable. You swayed Fred's decision that night, not me. I'm only
happy about the way things turned out for you and for Fenton. This town needs a man like you. The
Southside needs a man like you. I need a man like you, Tomas.”

“Don't make me out to be noble, when what I was being was self-serving.”

“Self-serving?” She laughed. “You don't know the meaning of the word. I did my research on you,
Tomas. When I canvassed the neighborhood for the school, I spoke with the women on the
Southside-mothers, wives, sisters-and they all had the same tale to tell: you gave their men a chance
when nobody else in town would. I know all about the type of men you hire and put to work; they're men
another contractor wouldn't touch. You've given those men a second chance. You've given them back

the pride and self-respect that comes with earning a decent living paycheck. I also know all about your
plans to hire more disenfranchised men, contingent upon the waterfront contract.”

She pointed a jabbing finger at his face. “Tomas Ruiz, you own the rec enter across the street from The
Pink Flamingo. You bought that old warehouse and rehabbed it so that kids will have someplace to hang
after school, so they'll stay out of trouble. You're a man with a mission. Do you blame me for wanting in
on that?”

“You had no right to interfere,” he said, torn up with emotion. “No right at all!”

“I realize you're angry now-”

“Yeah, I'm angry. Good and angry: You set me up!”

“That's rather harsh,” she said evenly.

“I'm a harsh man and I'm glad you're learning it sooner rather than later.”

She wiped a hand over her eyes. “All right, Tomas. I'm all out of arguments. I accept the blame for what
I've done, but please, just don't penalize your crew because of me.” She shook her head. “You were
right about me all along. I am arrogant. I swept into town, thinking I could solve the world's social
problems by opening up a music school. How silly.”

“It's not silly. The school is a sound idea! It's an investment in those kids’ futures!”

Once the impassioned declaration left his lips, Tomas couldn't take it back, didn't know if he wanted to
take it back. The words, more than what he should have said considering the present circumstances,
were still so much less than the depth of his true feelings.

“I was just kidding myself about us,” he said slowly. “I'll never be good enough for a lady like you. It's
not about how you went behind my back to Connor. It's about who I am inside. I have money, but I'll
never know anything about culture. About music. The arts. You belong with people like the Connors.
You have an education. Style. I have none of those things. We're too different. We don't see the world
the same way. And we can't make this thing work between us.”

Sera's face was strained; her skin was the palest of cream. Tomas could make out the tiny blue veins
running under the translucent surface of her lowered eyelids. And he swore quietly, calling himself every
foul name he could think of, for not telling her the truth about his bid in the beginning. If he had, none of
this would have happened. Neither of them would have resorted to keeping secrets.

It's just that he had been so afraid of losing her and her respect-

Too late now, he told himself. He'd already lost his woman and her respect. And it was probably all for
the best that it happened tonight. It would've happened sooner or later, anyway. This way, they'd make a
clean break before things got messy, ugly. Before life got any more complicated.

Better to leave on his own than be asked to leave.

“We were never meant to be together. If it wasn't this, it would have been something else. Have your
lawyer draw up the divorce papers. Whatever you want, I'll agree to.” He turned to go. “I'll see you
around, Sera.”

“Don't go, Tomas,” she cried. “Please don't go. I-I need you!”

He turned back to her. “You don't need me. You need this.” His hand went between her legs to cup her
pussy.

“That's right, Tomas,” she said, her small breasts heaving in agitation under the elegant black cocktail
dress. “It's always been about the sex. That's all I ever needed you for, right? Everything else meant
nothing. “

“You said it, baby. Not me.”

“Fine. I want you to fuck me.”

At the sound of that word on his wife's ladylike lips, he went hard as steel.

“That's right,” she taunted. “For the next twenty-four hours, I want non-stop fucking. A fucking
marathon. I want it all. Everything you're known for in Fenton.”

“You've got it, lady. Turn around,” he ordered, unzipping his fly as she did.

He was breathing hard, his lungs on fire with anger and self-contempt and lust. Always lust. His balls
were aching with lust for her.

“If you want it, baby, you gotta show me. Pull that dress up outta my way and spread your legs. “

Hiking her dress up to her waist, she braced her upper body on her outstretched arms and parted her
thighs. “I will always want you, Tomas.”

At the declaration, he drove his cock up and in, back to front, the thrust causing her body to violently
jolt.

Never before had he taken Sera without being able to read her expression. He was big; she was small.
He'd needed it face to face so that he could gauge her level of comfort. Married for five years, her cunt
was still virgin tight, so he'd been careful.

He wasn't being careful now, he thought, as his hard cock drove into her, no condom, skin to skin.

When she cried out, he pretended not to hear.

* * * *

After the first hard fuck against the wall, he'd had Sera strip. Right there, in the hallway. Everything off.
And he hadn't been playful about it, either. This was no game they played. She wanted the full sexual
experience, he intended to give her the full sexual experience.

Cum streamed from Sera's pussy down her legs, from thigh to knee. Her pubic hair was slick with it. He
liked seeing it there. He liked knowing that his semen was inside her.

When she was nude, after making a brief stop at the stash of love toys he kept on hand in the bedroom,
he led her into the bathroom and told her what he wanted.

She tossed her head. “Fine.”

He watched her bubble up at the sink. When she was done, and her pubic curls were all soapy, he
threaded his fingers through the slippery golden-brown pelt. Then, he picked up the razor.

“All the ladies at The Flamingo keep theirs heart-shaped,” she offered.

“Yeah, I know. But not you. I want your cunt bare. I want to see your clit easily from the back.” He ran
a finger across the plump lips. “And I want this kept open. That's as in the whole time. You don't keep it
open, I'll clamp it open.”

He shaved her bare, smoothing his palm over the smooth skin afterwards.

When she purred, he spanked her bottom. “What I say about keeping it open?” he growled

“I'm sorry,” she murmured and two-fingered her pussy, drawing upwards on the silky pink flesh.

“Good.”

Better than good, her clit was right out there for him to see.

Possessed by the sight, he handed her the largest dildo he could find in the bunch. It was smaller than he
was, but still large by dildo standards “Get down on your knees on the floor and put it in.”

Her long hair rippled around her like one of those old-fashioned privacy screens as she sank to her
haunches on the tile, opened her thighs, and started pushing the phallus into her shaven slit.

He gathered up her hair and wound it around his wrist so that he wouldn't miss out on seeing any of
Sera.

Like, when she came up a little to maneuver the dildo and her pert tits shifted.

That was something else. He couldn't help himself, then; he ran his free hand over her. Across the
up-tilted nipples, between the girlish tits. As he couldn't reach her belly, even when he bent his knees, still
holding her on a hair leach, he crouched on the floor with her.

She had gotten down for him, but mercy, hadn't he quick as lightening ended up there too?

He kneaded her belly, then smoothed a hand between her spread thighs, up and down each leg.

“Push it all the way in, Sera. Nothing left over.”

He slipped his hand underneath her, petting her bottom as the muscles in her buttocks tightened.

When she had accommodated the dildo, he straightened his legs, and unzipped his tux trousers, still
holding her by the hair with his other hand. “You know what I want, Sera. And while you're doing it,
keep the pussy action going.”

Her tongue licked the head of his throbbing cock-it already oozed pre-come-first, before sliding down
the length. She kissed her way back up as his fingers tightened on her hair. At the top again, she opened

her mouth over the bulbous end, and took him in.

Holding her in place by her hair, he thrust for her throat while she manipulated the dildo faster and faster
between her legs.

About to explode, he pulled out and rasped, “Lie down on the floor.”

Eyelids heavy, she prostrated herself for him on the tiles, the dildo still pumping in and out between her
splayed legs.

Straddling her prone body, one leg on either side of her feet, the need to possess her overtaking reason,
he came on a shout of hot jettison, his come marking her as his from her mouth to her belly, as Sera
writhed in orgasm.

* * * *

Much later, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she answered, but her voice sounded kinda muffled in the dark bedroom.

Concerned, Tomas peeled his sweaty body off of Sera's sweaty body and flicked on the lamp.

She'd begged for more, so he'd given her more. Had more been too much? Had he hurt her? Was her
voice muffled because she was crying?

Sera was spread-eagled on her belly on the bed; her wrists were stretched and tied to the posts by thin
leather straps; her ankles had received the same treatment. She was grinning from ear to ear into the
pillow.

Relieved, he grunted in satisfaction at her look of satisfaction. They were fucking one another into early
graves, but at least they'd die smiling.

He kneaded her lush bottom. “You're a great lay, honey. The best I've ever had.”

“Considering the numbers you've had, that's quite the compliment.”

“Sera,” he began soulfully, “there haven't been all that many women. And I only ever asked you to marry
me.”

She sighed. “Yours was the first proposal I'd ever received.”

His hand stopped moving on her ass. “Matt didn't ask you to marry him?”

“If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about my first marriage.” She turned her face away. “Will you
release me for a few minutes? I'd like to go pee, if I may?”

Thinking about that revelation, he untied her.

When she was free, she'd started easing her legs from the bed.

First step, her expression went tight.

Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her through the door into the adjoining bath and sat her down
on the toilet seat.

“Go ahead,” he told her, standing ruthlessly over her, his eyes between her legs, not even pretending to
give her privacy, not even pretending to look away.

She gasped as her bladder released.

He understood; his cock was on fire too. They'd been going at it like animals for hours.

After she'd finished, he carried her to the tub.

“The hot water will help the soreness,” he advised, stripping off the rest of his clothes and getting in with
her.

Closing the glass door, he turned on the water, full blast.

He washed her beautiful face, her long white throat, her dainty-little breasts.

Her breasts were swollen, the nipples bruised from his mouth, from his pinching fingers. He could make
out the teeth marks on one delicate slope. She had similar marks on both buttocks. He didn't break the
silky skin, but he'd come damn close.

“Open your legs,” he said carefully keeping any reflection from his voice.

When she'd done what she was told to do, he directed the shower spray between her legs, washing the
stickiness away.

“Turn,” he said, his tone still devoid of emotion.

This time he directed the spray between her shoulder blades, down her spine, between her buttocks. His
semen continued to make its pearled way down the drain.

She'd said nothing as he washed her, remained silent as he dried her, stood mute when he dropped to
his knees before her and placed his jaw against her belly. Sinking lower, he kissed a bruise on her inner
thigh.

“I want to do anal,” she said.

She could have asked him to crawl, and he would have crawled. He could have kneed him in the nuts,
and after howling for a few minutes, he would have gone back for more. Of all the things she could have
asked, could have said, could have done, that was the one thing he hadn't been expecting.

He looked up at her, into the green eyes that were bright with excitement. “What the hell are you talking
about, Sera?”

“We don't have much time left. Before we go our separate ways, I want to know that my body belonged
to you completely.”

Possession is a two way street. She owned him, body and soul, since day one of their marriage. Even

before day one. She didn't know what she did to him, how helpless and weak he was when he was with
her. He hated being weak. Defenseless. Vulnerable-

“You want it too, Tomas,” she said, placing his palm so that it covered her bottom, and then grinding the
heel of his hand into the bruised flesh. “If you can't admit to anything else, at least admit to that. You want
us to belong totally to one another.”

“Christ,” he prayed, and turned her so she was faced away. “Yes, I do want it.”

He worshipped a buttock with his mouth, before slipping his tongue inside, moving it inside, until she
started to writhe.

He'd needed some sign, some proof that she cared, an acknowledgement that this was about more than
bodies, and that maybe, despite everything, they had a shot at permanence.

But Sera hadn't given him anything to nourish his hope. She wanted sex. That's all she wanted from him.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed, placing her at the edge. He placed
Sera's damp hair over a shoulder. “You'll need lube.” He swallowed hard, smoothed his hand over the
lush bottom that drove him wild. “At least the first time.”

He reached for the nightstand, opened the top drawer, one handed the top of the tube open.

When his lubed finger made contact with her anus, she went very still.

He whispered into her ear, “We can stop any time.”

“I don't want you to stop! I was only...well...startled,” she said solemnly.

Sometimes it was metaphysical; sometimes it was all about the mechanics...

He lubed her good, and then lubed his cock.

Kissing the small of her back first, he opened her buttocks, and fingered the dimple. When she could
take two fingers inside, he withdrew.

“We'll take it nice and slow,” he promised, and fed his cock into her lush ass.

“Oh,” she gasped when he started to make the slow push. “Oh!”

“It's all right, sweet baby. It's okay.” His free hand went to her clit. “You've so damned sexy. So sexy.
You feel so good.”

Her muscles remained tight.

“If you don't want this, we won't do it,” he said, pulling away.

She took a deep breath, and with a small sob, said, “I do want this, Tomas.”

“You gotta show me, honey.”

She reached behind her hips. With two hands, she opened herself in back. “Don't ever doubt that I want
you, Tomas.”

It was so beautiful, the way she did that for him.

He went to her, drew a hand down her spine, calming her, petting her, saying over and over again, “Feel
how much I want you, feel how much I want you,” as his cock sank into the crevice, and then into her.

Her cry at penetration was soft and low.

“Shh,” he soothed, “Shh.”

Madness driving him, he watched himself go in, all the way in, her body accepting him totally.

“Mmm,” she purred through her tears, pushing back against him, meeting his forward thrust so that he
had not an inch to spare, so that his balls were rammed up into his throat.

“Oh yes,” she sobbed. “Yes, yes, yes. Don't hold back.”

He didn't.

Wiping the sweat from her sides, tightening his grip on her hips so his fingers wouldn't slide on her
slippery skin, he pushed them both over the edge into oblivion where deceit and disappointment and
confused words like love don't matter.

When they had both screamed a mutually agonized climax, he reached inside the drawer.

“One time won't be enough for either of us,” he told her, and installed the plug. “It'll be easier if you wear
this.”

Post coital snuggling out of the question. He said, “Rest now, Sera,” and left her.

Because he was weak, because his pride had deserted him, he came back to Sera twice more, until
there was nothing more inside him left to give her. Then strung out and sick and empty, he turned on his
heel, found his clothes, and left her there, naked, on the bed.

He cried all the way back to his trailer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Two months later...

“Hi Mrs. Ruiz!” Consuelo Rodriguez boomed from the top step of The Southside Conservatory of
Music. Her best pal, shy Kelley O'Donnell, hung back and played with the wispy bangs that decorated
her forehead like red feathers.

Sera grinned at both girls. Her arms were loaded with music books, and aching from their weight, but
she stopped to chat with her two students anyway. “You guys are looking all bright-eyed this afternoon.
What's up?”

In typical Connie-style, the exuberant twelve-year old bounced up and down while the quiet Kelley
continued to fix her hair.

“We're both so totally blown away!” Connie offered. “We got you for voice workshop again next
semester.”

At that pronouncement, Sera totally dropped her books, and opened her arms wide to hug both girls;
Mrs. Ruiz was big on hugs. “I know. Isn't it cool?”

“Way cool,” Connie enthused, while Kelley vigorously nodded her ponytails. “Is there anybody else we
know in the class?”

“I'm stopping into the office right now to find out my spring schedule. Come along and we'll check out
the class list together.”

Tagged by Connie and Kelley, Sera led the way into the administrative area where the registrar looked
over a computer generated scheduling report.

“We couldn't wait to come back here, Mrs. Ruiz. Me and Kelley are both taking piano too. On
scholarship,” Connie bragged.

“Which scholarship?” Sera asked absently; there were so many now, it was sometimes difficult to keep
track.

“The Ruiz Construction Scholarship,” she said proudly. “On account of we're both so talented. My
brother, Jose, is gonna take a computer graphics class with Mr.Ruiz down at the rec center. He says it
sounds way interesting.”

“He'd better sign up soon. I've heard that class is quite popular.”

“Jose wants to take 3D animation too. All kinds of neat courses are being offered there. Everything,
‘cept music.”

Sera lifted her fair brows. “Tomas Ruiz had better not cut into my territory.”

Connie giggled. “He's so cute. All my girlfriends are half in love with him. Some older ladies your age,
too. How come you two aren't married no more?”

Sera, pretending not to hear that question, she asked the registrar, “Miss True, may I see my class
schedule for next semester?”

Sera was proud of their automated registration system. She thought the school would have to do
everything manually, but then an office supply store moved into the neighborhood and donated a
computer. The thoughtful gesture made processing student files much easier.

The office supply store was one of the many small businesses opening on the Southside. Abandoned
buildings were scooped up left and right and promptly renovated, not ripped down. Real estate values
were soaring. There was even talk of building a new public school...

Washing windows, one pane at a time, Seraphina thought. Sometimes that's all it took to bring pride
back to a neighborhood.

And jobs.

And new houses.

The Conservatory was surrounded by gorgeous, but moderately priced new houses, in various states of
construction, most of which were already sold. Soon the sounds of Bach and Beethoven would drift
through the backyard gardens of those new homes as student musicians learned their craft. The Southside
was really turning around.

When the registrar handed her the computer run, Sera stared at the printout in disbelief. “That man!”

Roxanne True's brow puckered. “What man?”

“Tomas Ruiz!”

“I thought you knew.” The former exotic dancer chuckled. “Tommie is in every one of your classes next
term. Someone told him he had the hands for the piano, and he decided to give lessons a go.”

He did have the hands for the piano; she'd told him so herself. But there were two other piano and voice
teachers at the school now, a necessity due to increasing enrollments, and both were wonderfully talented
musicians. Why couldn't he have chosen one of them?

Sera had heard from Myra the other day. It seems Tomas was taking art courses at the community
college, poetry classes at the library, music here-did the man never sleep?

Tomas Ruiz never had done things in half measures! Evidently, he was now on a whirlwind tour of
self-improvement. And it was working; Tomas was rapidly becoming one of the most respected and
influential citizens in Fenton.

Connie and Kelley had giggled over the class list for a while and then left, leaving Roxanne to whisper
privately to her, “Did you know that Tommie is offering tuition reimbursement to his crew and their
families for any courses they take here?”

“Yep.”

Class enrollment was up now, but that hadn't been the case in the beginning.

After a disappointing start, Calia had once again canvassed the neighborhood, installing a new series of
flyers on telephone poles offering instrumental instruction during mothers’ hours. The very next week, the
classes were filled to capacity with moms on full tuition reimbursement waivers from Ruiz Construction.

Tomas Ruiz to the rescue!

He'd had a hand in solving her staffing shortage too.

One day, a professional photographer came to the school to take videos. He was supposedly there as a
public relations move by Ruiz Construction, to promote their tuition reimbursement benefit package.
Considering that the school was benefiting from that package, Sera could hardly turn him away.
Somehow, though, the tape managed to find its way to every college placement office in the country.
Before she knew what was happening, Sera had applicants calling her to set up interviews, all dying to

work at the beautiful new school. Now she had more fully qualified applicants than she knew what to do
with.

Sera handed the computer report back to Roxanne. “Have you seen Calia today?”

“She's outside with Enrico.”

“Those two seem to be romantically inclined.”

The registrar sagely nodded. “Calia's young yet. I hope Enrico gives her some time to grow up first
before they get ... involved.”

“I think he will. They're the same age, but Enrico seems years older, doesn't he?” Sera lowered her
voice. “Calia tells me he's not putting any pressure on her yet. ‘He's continuing to behave like a complete
gentleman', she says.”

Roxie smiled. “'Rico's a good boy. He'll do right by Calia. Just you wait and see. And speaking of
perfect gentlemen, here's one coming to take me for coffee. I'm going to have to shake things up but
good in that direction if I want more than a kiss goodnight at the door from him.”

With a wave, the statuesque former exotic dancer did a slow, seductive strut to meet a certain voice
instructor at the Conservatory.

Sera didn't doubt for a minute that Rox could shake things up with the vocal coach. The poor guy didn't
stand a chance.

Now that Sera was earning a steady income at the school, she'd retired from waiting tables, but she was
still seeing Lou as much as ever since Rox started working at the school.

Sera hurried from the registrar's office to her next class.

At the podium, she tapped her baton to quiet the group; disgruntled after hearing they were performing
The Mikardo by Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Sorry, people,” she called over the vocal grumbles and groans. “I realize that G and S are no longer as
fashionable as they once were-”

The group booed.

Sera tapped the podium again. “-but that's tough. We're doing ‘em.”

As she knew they would, the class ganged up on her:

“What is this with dead composers? Isn't there someone out there who hasn't been dead for like a
thousand years we could do instead?”

She smiled. “We can jazz up the numbers. Bring them up to speed. Put a contemporary twist on the
musical.”

“No way!”

“Impossible!”

“What about doin’ Rent?”

And on it went.

Mrs. Ruiz rapped the podium again. “People, people, quiet down! We're doing G and S, like it or not.
We'll run through each piece as a group, and then tomorrow, I'll conduct auditions for specific parts. I'll
hear leads first, then supporting, right on down the line. You'll love this musical, I just know it.”

Sera raised her baton and the group stumbled their way through each number. By four-thirty, the teacher
was feeling more than a little drained. “Okay, kids, that was great. See you tomorrow after school.”

The day was over and it was time once again to face her lonely apartment.

Although she loved to teach, even when she was fully engaged in imparting knowledge to her students,
she was missing Tomas. No matter how busy she was, or what she was doing, she was missing the man
she loved.

She'd swallow her pride and tell him so during their first lesson. And keep on telling him until he listened.
She intended to fight for the stubborn man until she won his heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Rubble fell from the ceiling. Jagged pieces of plaster and concrete barely missed her head. Billowing
clouds of dust choked her lungs and gritted her eyes. Sera disregarded it all. She crept forward,
inch-by-inch, on hands and knees in the darkness.

Only faith in a higher power kept her moving. Only prayer prevented her from surrendering to despair.

In India, she thought she'd lost both her faith and her ability to pray, but when she'd needed them the
most, a Greater Authority had miraculously restored both to her. She needed the power of prayer and
the optimism of faith now more than she had ever needed them before! She must not question whether or
not Tomas was already dead! She must not ask herself how anyone could survive in the aftermath of so
much destruction!

She would not give into negative thinking. She'd find her husband and she'd find him alive alive! There
was something very important she needed to tell him.

Sera had been preparing dinner when Myra called to tell her that the Ruiz Construction crew was
shoring up the basement in a warehouse when a gas leak in an abandoned building next door caused an
explosion. It was just one of those terrible coincidences, as the derelict structure wasn't part of the
Riverfront Project. Everyone had gotten out of the warehouse basement but Tomas. Her husband was
still missing, buried under tons of bricks and mortar where once had stood a four story building.

With a voice breaking with emotion, Myra went on to relate that Tomas had behaved heroically to
ensure that all his men were brought to the surface. But when his turn came for rescue, in a characteristic
move, the boss of Ruiz Construction had stayed underground for a final sweep of the area ‘just to make
sure his men were all accounted for'.

The relic of a building, constructed long before codes and regulations, had swayed, then crumbled. The
single girder holding the roof in place had broken in half like a toothpick, flattening all that remained
underneath. Her husband was somewhere underneath the avalanche.

Tomas! Her heart cried. Where are you?

A cough from somewhere up ahead. A groan. A curse. Movement!

It was dark, and clouds of plaster distorted what little she could see, but Sera knew it was Tomas.

Dragging herself along on her tummy, and using her elbows like ski poles, she made her way to a
mountain of cement blocks where she thought the groan might have originated.

There was a small opening in the front of the cement mound. Ignoring her panic, she squeezed her way
inside.

“Tomas?” she whispered, afraid a raised voice might bring the whole thing down on top of them.

“Sera! Is that you?” came the choked response.

“Yes. Thank God, you're okay.”

“Don't come any closer,” he wheezed. “This whole area is unstable. Get the hell out of here now.”

“I can't,” she answered, directing her voice to the echo of his. “Not without you.”

“My leg is all busted up. Half the ceiling is on my head. I'm whipped, Sera. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Then neither am I.”

No clearance overhead. Total darkness. No air. She was literally entombed in the rubble. But she was
with her husband, and he was alive. That's all that mattered.

“Get the hell away from here!” he growled. “This place could blow any minute. There's a leak in the gas
main.”

“I know. But don't give up. The rescuers will find us. The workmen are digging directly above us now.
Just hold on a little longer, they'll get us both out.”

“There is no us! There never was,” he exploded with the same force that must have collapsed the
building. “Why the hell did they call you?”

“Because I'm your wife.”

“Not for much longer,” he rasped. “My lawyer is drawing up the paperwork; you'll soon be free of this
farce of a marriage.”

“I don't want to be free.”

“I don't care what you want. Get out now while you still can.”

Tomas wore a shroud of gray plaster dotted with bright red blood. His leg was sticking out at an
unnatural angle, a bone protruded white under his ripped black jeans. She swallowed the tears. It was
time to be strong.

“I snuck around the police barricade, Tomas,” she told him. “I had to tell you to come home. I need my
husband.”

“Don't con me, Sera. You don't need me.”

“Then how's this?” she asked, defiantly. “I'm about to faint. If I lose consciousness on the way back out,
the rescuers will never find me. You're my only chance of survival. The rescuers know you're here. They
have a pretty good idea of your location. No one knows about me.”

“Why?” he asked, and looked straight at her. “Why did you do something so dangerous?”

“Because I can't go on without you.”

“You survived without Matt, and you loved him. After he died, you went on. You can certainly go on
without me.”

“Oh Tomas, haven't you caught on yet?” she asked, her hand reaching across the broken glass until their
fingers joined.

“Don't do that. Don't touch me!”

“I have to. Without touching you, without feeling your strength, I'll lose consciousness.”

“You don't play fair,” he said, but his fingers tightened on hers.

She clung to his hand. “Help me, Tomas. I need you.”

“Damn.” He laughed grimly. “Well, who knows? Maybe my back will hold, and we will be rescued
before this place blows. Anything's possible. And hey, this was the one building that needed to be
demolished anyway. The process was just speeded up.”

Her tears started to fall. “I've missed you so much.”

“Don't cry, baby.”

“I can't help it. Oh Tomas, please come home.”

“Why?”

She tried to touch a finger to his face, but she couldn't reach. “Because I love you.”

“What about your feelings for Matt? I know he still owns your heart. And I'm warning you, Sera, I won't
take leftovers. I never had affection as a kid and I want the real thing now. Not only your body, but
everything else too. I don't ever want to be second best again. If I can't be first in your heart, then I can't
come home.”

“You're my heart's passion! Don't you understand? It's you! You're the one. It was never Matt. What I

had with Matt was friendship. You're my first and only lover.”

“What?”

“Matt was a good man, but he didn't want me as his wife. He only married me so that I could continue
my missionary work in India. When my parents died, he took over their mission. The only way I could
stay on was if we were man and wife. Our marriage was never consummated. I lost my virginity that night
with the candle.” She could laugh about it now, and did.”

“Shit, Sera! Why the fuck didn't you say something?”

She shook her head. “None of that matters now. Don't you see? All that is my past; my future is with
you.”

“You're only promising me a future because you know that's what I need to hear.”

“Never. You're strong. Strong enough to hold up this building if you have to. Strong enough to give your
crew a shot at a better life.” She wept openly. “Strong enough to love me. You do love me. You've
never told me but I know that you do. And I love you.”

“Don't say those things to me unless you really mean them. I can't lose another home. There's been so
many houses. So many different families. They came and went. They'd let me into their lives for a short
while and then I'd...and then for one reason or another...I'd have to move on. I can't move on anymore. I
love you Sera, but this time I want to stay put.” He struggled for control. “And even if we do try to make
a life together, it won't be easy for us. I'll always be an outsider, looking in.”

“All you'll ever have to do, Tomas Ruiz, is look into my heart. There's so much love there,” she said
half-giggle, half-tear, “I'm surprised there's room for anything else. Come home. Please come home.”

“There's two things-”

“Name them,” she whispered into the darkness.

“Marry me again.”

“Yes.”

“In a real church this time.”

“Yes.”

“And Sera, I want babies. Lots of babies.” Tomas laughed as the sound of their rescuers grew closer.
“And never, ever, wear your hair all tight again. And keep baking those desserts... “

“But you said there were only two things.”

“Here's one and two. Let me love you. Always let me love you.”

“Done. And now I have something to tell you.”

“Go on,” he said smugly. “I'm tough. As long as we're together, I can take anything.”

“I'm pregnant, Tomas.”

As the rescue sling was lowered through the rubble, big, tough Tomas Ruiz fainted.

Sera Ruiz was a practical woman, and as such, she considered her husband's swoon heaven sent; taking
him home was so much easier now that he wasn't fighting it.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of
peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate
anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the
altar. Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and
every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a
husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded
by flowers and laughter.

Visit http://www.atlanticbridge.net for information on additional titles by this and other authors.