The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  He turned to her as he unbuckled his belt. Violet would not have been surprised if he had been wearing those old-timey sock garters. She definitely did not want to look when he shucked his pants to the floor and took off his shiny dress shoes. Must…change the subject…

  “Wait,” she said, backing up to the taller bureau. “You must let me get a secret component of the sexy beach scene.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Don seemed to be falling for it. Violet had almost convinced herself that the game was real, and that probably helped. The tall bureau was on the opposite wall from Don and the front door, so he must have felt safe. “Sure, anything you think might help make the beach sexier. Is it a sexy black bathing suit, like you had on the other day?”

  Bile rose in her throat as she turned and pulled the middle drawer open. How had he seen her in the black suit? She’d only worn it that one day with Harper under her riding outfit, then at poolside when Drake had yelled at them about—here they are, safe and secure, apropos for the theme of the Shag Room. She’d just have to take her chances that this ploy would work.

  Twirling around, she held the handcuffs behind her back. She still wore her three-inch heels from the gala, and the long sequined dress hugged her curves like a Porsche. Violet had just been learning the tactic of sex appeal, and she tossed her hair over her shoulder as she advanced on Don like a model on the runway. “I’ve got the absolute sexiest idea, Don.”

  “Oh yeah?” Don asked uncertainly. He did have white, hairy calves, and looked ridiculous in his stocking feet and boxer shorts. “I’m glad you’re getting into it, Violet.”

  Violet swallowed her pride and bile when she plastered her torso to his and wriggled her shoulders back and forth. She couldn’t wait for Harper and Sinclair to figure out where Don had taken her. She thought she’d seen the men jump into Sinclair’s Jaguar, but she couldn’t be sure. Too terrified to even look in the rearview mirror. And Harper had been pretty much naked.

  She locked her gaze with Don’s, hoping to prevent him from looking down. Sure enough, he allowed her to mesmerize him as she slipped the cuffs past his hip, encircling his wrist with her fingers. Perfect. “Of course I’m getting into it, Don. I met you before I met those other two perverts. Remember when we met in the lobby? You’re the devil who stole the menu.”

  “Of course I did—hey!” Click. That was only one wrist, and Don yanked his arm up to see what sort of bracelet he wore. Rage lit up his face, and his greasy, stick-like black hair actually seemed to prickle. He brandished a fist in Violet’s face. “What’s the big idea, Violet?” He pronounced her name as though it were a hex.

  She managed to retain her plastic smile. “Easy, Don, easy. It’s part of the game, don’t you see? If this is the beach, you’re stranded on a desert island. I’m the one who comes to save you.”

  A flicker of interest crossed Don’s face. “Really? I like the idea of a savior.”

  “Yes! I put these handcuffs in this drawer earlier, knowing you’d be here to play the game with me. See? We were on a cruise, like Gilligan’s Island. I’m Ginger in my evening gown, right?”

  Don frowned. “Then who am I?”

  Who would be the most flattering role model on that three-hour cruise? “The Professor?”

  Don smiled widely. Pshew. “The Professor, got you.”

  When he turned to head toward the “beach,” Violet clicked the other cuff securely shut at the small of his back. The key was still in the drawer. She could probably risk taking the gun from him now, but she had another phase of the plan.

  “No, not the beach.” She grabbed his upper arm and pulled him toward the bed itself. “The ocean! Remember? You’re adrift on a piece of the boat that went down, a piece of the hull or something.”

  Don willingly clambered onto the gently rocking mattress, where he had replaced the crushed velvet spread with a batik jungle print. “But why am I cuffed?”

  “Lie on your back.” Violet had the center chain that would connect Don to one of the bookshelf’s dowel posts. They made things solidly back in the seventies. There would be no budging from here. “You’re cuffed because the Professor was in the hoosegow for, ah, for daring to make a pass at Ginger.”

  Don was skeptical. “Then Ginger saves him?”

  “Why not? She’s not going to hold it against him. She’s secretly in love with him anyway.”

  “Like you are with me.”

  “Like I am with you.”

  “One more thing,” said Don. “Go over to that duffle bag on the floor. Yeah. Open the main compartment. See the shiny red things? Pull them out.”

  With horror, Violet realized she was pulling out her own shoes. Her own lovely pumps—the ones she’d bought specially for the bowling alley gala! She wanted to brain old Don over the head or gouge his eye out with the heel, but she had to retain her cool. Politely, she said, “These are my shoes.”

  “Yes!” chortled Don. “I knew you’d want to see me in them.”

  See him in them? Well, this was a new twist. “Oh, of course. I knew you looked good in red. Cherry red, to be exact.”

  “Yes,” agreed Don, a thrill in his voice. “I looked on the inside of the shoe. It’s Pink Flamenco!”

  Violet sat on the edge of the bed, bowling Don toward her. She realized she would have to take off his socks, but it was a small price to pay for the much worse things that could have happened. She looked at his face as she stripped the sock off. “I chose them because the red really flatters my eyes. I think the red flatters your eyes too.” She had heard of this before—men who liked women’s clothing yet were completely straight.

  “I’ve tried them on already,” he admitted.

  “Tell me one thing, Don. When Bryan hired you to kill me, how much did he pay you?”

  “Oh, he’s only paid me twenty thousand so far,” Don said conversationally. “Thirty more if I actually followed through. But why would I do that?”

  “Yes, why would you? We’re in love. I’m going to tell Bryan to go suck it, how does that sound? You don’t need his money.”

  “Yes, I’ve got your money now.”

  Steam practically came from Violet’s nose and ears at that comment. How dare he. The shoes actually fit him, surprisingly. Violet wore a size ten but that was still too small for most…normal men. “Oh, my. These look absolutely stunning. I wish I had a camera.”

  “Oh, I do have a camera! Look in the duffel bag!”

  Violet knew she should make her getaway, but she couldn’t resist grabbing some more hard evidence against Don Wexler, hit man. Indeed, there was a fancy Minolta camera in his bag. Violet turned it on and even adjusted the aperture before squeezing off a shot of the assassin handcuffed to the waterbed headboard, nearly naked except for women’s high heels. He even smiled for the camera.

  She slung it over her shoulder and picked up the pistol from the dresser. Considering he’d been holding the barrel to her head for about an hour, she knew she would have been justified shooting him—and the waterbed. But she’d never been able to bring herself to shoot an animal, much less a human being, and she wasn’t in any immediate danger—anymore.

  Abandoning the coy act, she said flatly, “Listen, Don. I wouldn’t have sex with you if you were the last man on a desert island. You’re weird, disgusting, and not to mention creepy. You hid in my boyfriend’s house! You kidnapped me at gunpoint! Those are not the smooth moves that make a woman go all melty and soft inside!”

  “What are you trying to say, Violet?” Don whispered.

  “What I am saying is that you’re a disgusting creep, Don! What you just tried to do is called rape, and you just think it’s how any ordinary man acts on a date! I doubt you’re going to learn any new dating moves in prison, but I want you to know.” She waved the gun, taking in the beach umbrella and the sand he’d poured on the carpet. She noticed for the first time he’d also placed a drink cooler on the sand. “This is not the way to get laid.”

  And she unbolted the door and left
.

  “Wait, Violet!” Don was yelling. “Come back and consummate our love!”

  “Consummate my ass,” Violet muttered, dashing down the breezeway toward the front lobby. If she was lucky she could find Carl, but he couldn’t possibly be awake all of the time, and she had no phone. The Cavern of course was closed, but—

  “Miss Stinson!” A cop popped literally out of the bushes, startling Violet.

  “Yes? Hey, listen, there’s a kidnapper and attempted rapist down in the Shag—”

  “Yes, we know.” The officer took her firmly by the forearm, taking the pistol from her. “I’m Officer Pickett. We were informed that you’d been taken and there’s a SWAT team forming around the back. We were just waiting for signs of you, alive.” He steered her away from the Shag Room. In a gap in the breezeway, she saw black trucks loaded with equipment. Men upholstered like dark Michelin men milled about quietly, waiting for some signal.

  “But how did anyone figure out where I am? Did Harper and Sinclair follow me?”

  “Not so much that. They knew where he’d be taking you. Are you all right? Do you need the ambulance?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing had a chance to happen because—Harper!”

  “Be quiet,” suggested Officer Pickett. “We’ve still got to move in and make the arrest.”

  Violet had never hugged anyone so strongly in her life. Harper squeezed her so tightly her feet were off the ground. She kissed his bristly face over and over again. She never wanted to let go, and now she knew what all of those romantic songs were about.

  “Oh, God!” she cried. “How did you figure out where—”

  “Harper did.” Sinclair stood inches from them, and Violet had to release her love to hug her other love. “Oh, I love you. Harper figured out from Wexler’s beach references that he referred to a waterbed, can you imagine that?”

  “That’s brilliant,” murmured Violet, luxuriating in nuzzling her face against Sinclair’s neck. Then she remembered the camera slung over her shoulder. “Wait, look.”

  Men crowded her, asking questions. She told Pickett, “I left him handcuffed to the headboard. Look.”

  The SWAT men chuckled as they gathered around the camera’s LCD screen.

  “Heh, he’s wearing high heels.”

  “Ooo! Sexy.”

  Violet took it seriously. “Look, he’s a troubled person. Promise me he’ll get some psychological help. Not only did he agree to murder me, but he is somehow hallucinating that I’m in love with him and the proper way to court a woman is to kidnap her.”

  “We got it,” said Pickett. “You wouldn’t believe the whackjobs we see in this profession. So he’s securely handcuffed to the headboard?”

  “Completely securely,” said Harper. Everyone looked at him.

  “How do you know?” asked Pickett. Understanding washed over his face and he turned to Violet. “I get it. I’ve seen this guy going in and out of The Racquet Club several times over the years. You’d better watch out for this one.”

  “As I’ve watched out for you inside the Racquet Club,” Harper called with amusement as Pickett waddled away.

  Violet squeezed Harper and laid her head on his chest. “I just want to go home, Harper. I can’t believe my ex was behind that hit attempt. I’m just exhausted.”

  Sinclair said, “Harper wants to see one thing inside that room. He didn’t just figure out where the asswad had taken you. He figured out another piece of the thimble puzzle.”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet,” said Harper. “We’ll have to wait till they clear out to check. I think we need to look a little bit farther than we did for the thimble.”

  “Oh, that’ll take forever,” said Violet. The shaved part of Harper’s throat beneath the beard felt like velvet against her face. He wasn’t as hard and unfeeling as he liked to project. She was blessed to be the object of his love.

  “Yeah,” said Sinclair. “They’re going to need to fingerprint, shine that black light everywhere—”

  “Take your statement,” Harper said warningly.

  Violet sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to submit to that. We’ll never get any sleep.”

  “We’re with you all the way,” said Harper gently, stroking her head. “I’m just relieved we were able to help save you, although it looks like you didn’t need any help being saved.”

  “I could always use the help. No matter how much it looks like I have things under control, I want you guys to know that I can always use the help. You’re never in the way or bothering me. Never.”

  Sinclair put one arm around Violet, the other around Harper. “That’s good to know,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’d hate to bother you.”

  “Never.” Violet sighed into the warmth of Harper’s chest. After she answered the cop’s questions, she was going to go home to her Water Buffalo Lodge and snuggle all night long between the two strapping men. She had loved them passionately before, but tonight’s trial had bonded them even closer, and now she needed them, too.

  It was all right to need. It didn’t make her feel weak. It made her feel human.

  Epilogue

  Harper loathed that bastard Damon Blanchard.

  As pumped up as Harper was from the whirlwind of his last ride and the cheering, adoring crowds, he was now forced to pose for photos with his arm chummily around that fucktard Blanchard. They grinned and bared their teeth like two wolverines in their fancy shirts—Harper’s was black and red with white fringes—as they repeated their canned lines.

  Harper told the reporters, “I had a really good year.” That was doublespeak for “I lost the championship to this ruthless douche canoe who would literally stab me in the back if you guys weren’t watching.” Instead, he added, “I had a really nasty double kicker in the final round, so it was a rough ride. I set a goal last year to make it to Oklahoma City for the finals, and I made it. I’m just glad I won a pickup truck.” Screw the damned pickup truck. Harper already had a truck. Blanchard had won the purse of five hundred thousand dollars. That would have enabled Harper to pay for his damned honeymoon instead of using his wife’s money, and then some.

  Harper’s animal was a real honker, the nasty Jean Claude. Harper had been thrown out the back door immediately. Blanchard had scored himself an honest bucker, a horse that bucked the same way each time it came out of the chute. In fact, the horse’s name was even Honest Abe. Abe was a blooper with very little bucking ability. That made it a lot easier. It was just the luck of the draw. But Harper loathed Blanchard anyway.

  “I’m going to get you, you scum-sucking rat bastard,” Blanchard seethed through clenched teeth.

  “See you next year, compadre,” Harper snarled, rattling his competitor like a broken speedometer.

  “Partner, partner!” It was Drake grabbing his arm, yanking him away from the hated cowboy. “CNN wants to take a picture of you and Violet. You know, sort of a human interest thing showing what a gorgeous fiancée you have.”

  Harper and Damon squeezed and rattled each other’s shoulders. They shoved each other way in disgust while making it look palsy for the cameras.

  Drake had become Harper’s manager of sorts. Ever since Harper had theorized that Wexler would take Violet to the Shag Room for a Sex on the Beach, Drake’s opinion of him had done a one eighty.

  He was also impressed that Harper had figured out they needed to “look” a bit farther into the Look magazine where they’d found the thimble. Sure enough, a handwritten poem dated January 1948 had fallen out of the magazine. For some reason Sinclair had declared it to be a lost poem by Jack Kerouac, mainly because his father had admired Kerouac. They looked online and the handwriting did seem to match. Right now, the poem was with a forensic handwriting expert to determine its authenticity.

  “Here he is!” cried Violet, waving an arm widely to corral Harper into her inner circle. About four television cameras were on her and her magnificent costume. Violet had practically outdone Dolly Parton with the curling iron and s
equined flowers and skulls decorating her western shirt. She had taken enthusiastically to the rodeo circuit, although she often mentioned how dangerous Harper’s events were, that it worried her when he competed.

  “Here’s the man!” bawled the sportscaster, getting between him and Violet. “Harper, you exhibit true, intense athleticism, and you put on quite the show. Damon Blanchard bested you in the final round with some of the best bucking horses in the world. Do you have any thoughts on how you’ll do things differently next year?”

  “Yes,” said Harper, looking earnestly into the cameras. “Next time, there will be no sex before a ride. I truly think that’s what sapped my energy. I could’ve gone the distance on that arm jerker if I’d saved up my energy.”

  There was a brief pause during which the roar of the crowded ballroom flooded Harper’s ears. He remained smiling statically, blinking at the lights that absorbed almost his entire field of vision.

  “Well,” said the sportscaster, slapping Harper on the back. “Heh heh. That’s the sort of trademark speech that’s earned you so many devoted fans.”

  “They’re known as buckle bunnies.” Violet stuck her head between Harper and the announcer. “Those are women who breathlessly follow the cowboys on the rodeo circuit hoping they can be the one the cowboy is having sex with.”

  “Yes,” gritted Harper between clenched teeth. “I think most people know that, Vi.”

  But Harper was fit to bust with pride when it came to Violet. Don Wexler had been arrested on charges of kidnapping, attempted rape, and conspiracy to commit murder. Harper’s instincts had correctly led them to the Searchlight, but it was Violet who had chained Wexler to the bed. She had saved herself with her quick thinking and her knowledge of the Shag Room’s bondage equipment. To be engaged to marry her was the highlight of Harper’s life, which had been turning around at lightning speed. Maybe he wasn’t champion of the finals, but he had won her heart.

  “Well, Harp,” said the newsman, “we hope to see you back next year representing the California Circuit with your lovely new wife on your arm. Give you another run at the title. Don’t wear him out, Miss Violet.”