BlackMoon Reaper (6 page)

wanted it just as badly but for an entirely different reason.

He hooked his legs over hers and encircled her in his muscular arms as she put her

head on his chest.

“Stay the night, Reaper,” she said.

“I need to see to my horse,” he said.

She rolled off him and padded to the door, flung it open and yelled for someone

named Mack. Leaving the door ajar, she came back to the bed and hopped up on the

mattress, scooting down beside the Reaper.

A burly man appeared in the opened door. His hawklike gaze settled momentarily

on Phelan then skipped to his boss. “You wanted me, milady?”

“Take Lord Phelan’s horse to the stable and make sure it gets a good rubdown.

Bring his bedroll up here,” she ordered. “And close the door behind you.”

The man sniffed, ducked his head in silent compliance to the commands then left,

easing the door shut.

“Rest now, Reaper,” she said to him, her hand smoothing his chest.

“Aye,” he whispered into her hair. He shifted her so she lay alongside him. “I will.”

They fell asleep like that, but not even an hour had passed before she woke him

again, her lips tight on his cock, her hands kneading his body.

“Insatiable, aren’t you?” he teased as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

She looked up at him, her mouth tightening on his cock, and winked.

Phelan laughed. Who needed sleep anyway?

* * * * *

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Lucy lay with her head propped on her fist, watching the Reaper sleep. His long

dark eyelashes were so thick and spiky any woman would kill to have them as her own.

The clean slope of his nose gave him a boyish cast but there was nothing boyish about

the tall, muscular man lying naked beside her. He was all man. His thick brown hair

tumbled into eyes that were such a striking shade of amber she felt as though she were

being sucked into them when she looked in them. High cheekbones, a sensuous mouth,

a deep cleft in a noble chin, slight dimples when he smiled—these were things that

added up to one helluva devastatingly handsome face.

But it was the penetrating sadness in his gaze that had tripped her up the moment

she’d looked into his eyes. She’d seen pain and hurt and anguish and such terrible need

calling out from that gaze. Having experienced more than her own share of pain and

hurt and anguish and terrible need, she felt an overpowering urge to bring happiness to

Phelan Kiel’s life. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to wipe any grief clear

of his mind.

Gently she reached out to run her hand over the wiry hairs covering his broad

chest. She liked that his pecs were chiseled to perfection and his abdomen ripped, his

nipples hard little pebbles and his bellybutton deep. The bulge of his biceps even as he

lay sleeping was powerful and intimidating. The mere thought of those brawny arms

wrapped around her sent chills down her spine.

Her fingers moved to several strange indentions in the flesh of his chest and

lingered. She frowned, wondering what had caused the scars—for that was what they

were. They were mostly straight lines but a few were curved. They pressed into the skin

sharply. One slanted over the lower part of his belly just above the thick pubic hair.

“Who hurt you, baby?” she whispered, the tip of her finger following the scar on his

abdomen.

He snorted in his sleep and she stilled, expecting him to wake, but instead, he

turned his head away from her, grunted as he exhaled and seem to fall deeper into

sleep—as relaxed as any man she’d ever had lay beside her.

“Reapers have a hard time sleeping,”
one of her girls had told her
. “It’s like they’re afraid

to sleep.”

Yet Phelan had fallen asleep not once but twice after they’d made love and this time

he was deeply under, his mind so at peace she could touch and not wake him.

Lucy’s attention lowered to the long, thick shaft that lay crooked over one powerful

thigh. She longed to touch it, to stroke it, but she held back. She ached to have that

glorious cock deep inside her even though she knew the chances of him asking her to be

his mate were slim at best. Reapers didn’t take whores as their lifetime partners but,

gods, how she wished he were hers! She’d moved heaven and earth to make him

happy.

She sighed and snuggled down beside him again, pressing her body close to his.

For as long as he allowed it, she would be there for him. In her line of business, she was

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used to pretending. She could pretend he was hers. She slipped an arm across his chest

and smiled when he snorted again then began to snore softly.

“Oh Reaper, you don’t!” she said, straining to hold back a giggle. She buried her

forehead against his taut shoulder, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He came down the stairs the next morning sated, buttoning the sleeves of his silk

uniform shirt. He’d left Lucy snoring and that made him grin just thinking about it.

He’d never spent the night in a woman’s bed before, had never stayed long enough to

be surprised to hear one snoring. He found the sounds Lucy was making made him

want to throw his head back and laugh. They were cute little sounds and so human it

brought a smile to his face as he stood beside the bed and listened.

What a pleasant way to start your day
, he thought with pleasure as he closed her door

behind his exit.

His gun belt was buckled and slung over his shoulder, his hat cocked to the back of

his head, his saddlebags and bedroll in hand. The smell of frying bacon aroused his

hunger as he skirted the gaming and drinking tables to follow the aroma. Putting an

absent hand up to rub at the spot where he had injected himself in the neck with a vac-

syringe of tenerse, he paused in the doorway to gain the cook’s attention.

“You want food, milord?” the scruffy little man at the stove inquired. He flipped a

fried egg in the skillet and set the pan back on the fire without looking around.

“Aye,” Phelan said with a frown. The people of Haxton Cove seemed neither afraid

nor intimidated by who and what he was. If anything, they ignored him, and that was

beginning to rankle Kiel.

Still not looking around, not showing the respect to which Phelan was accustomed,

the cook began slicing half a dozen strips of bacon from the slab. “Pick you out a table,

sit yourself down and I’ll bring you out a plate. How do you want your eggs?”

“Over easy,” Phelan muttered. “Where’s the coffee?” He tossed the bedroll and

saddlebags into one of the chairs.

The man used his knife to point to the pot. “Help yourself.”

Grinding his teeth, Phelan walked over to the stove, took a potholder, lifted the pot

from the burner and carried it over to a stack of cups on the drain board. After pouring

himself a cup, he brought the pot back, slammed it down on the stove then spun around

and stalked off. As he walked, he felt the cook’s eyes on his back and that irritated him

even more.

Yanking a chair from under one of the tables, he snatched off his hat, tossed it to the

tabletop, plopped down in the chair, shot his long legs out and cradling the hot tin

coffee cup in both hands, began sipping the scalding brew. It was strong—just the way

he liked it. His narrowed eyes took in the few patrons who were eating their breakfast

in silence, none of them so much as glancing his way. While he was finishing the

steaming coffee, the cook came out with his plate of food and carrying the coffee pot.

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BlackMoon Reaper

“You want refills on the grub, just holler,” the cook told him as he poured a fresh

cup of coffee for the Reaper.

“Aye, I’ll do just that,” Phelan growled.

Out of sorts now, his neck still stinging from the injection of tenerse, Phelan sat

hunched over the table shoveling the food into his mouth and chewing methodically,

paying no attention to the taste. His narrowed gaze alternated between his plate and the

batwing doors where now and again he saw men walking past—no doubt on their way

to the mines. It was too early for drinking, gambling or whoring, and apparently few

ate their morning meal at The Ruby Load. It seemed Lucy’s prostitutes weren’t up, and

if any of the patrons had spent the night, they were either long gone or sleeping off a

hangover above the stairs.

The jingle of spurs on the wooden sidewalk brought Phelan’s head up from his

contemplation of the remaining bit of runny egg he was sopping up with a biscuit. He

knew who was wearing those spurs even before the gunman’s head appeared over the

batwing doors and his hands hooked over the edge to push them open.

Fontabeau’s dark amber eyes zeroed in on Phelan and his long legs brought him

straight to the table. He put a hand on the chair to the Reaper’s left.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Phelan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Sliding the chair away from the table, Fontabeau took a seat. He nudged his chin

toward Phelan’s plate. “Not bad, was it?”

“I’ve had worse,” Phelan replied. “Coffee’s the way it should be.”

Fontabeau leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Service leaves a lot to

be desired though, doesn’t it?”

“This whole town leaves a lot to be desired,” Phelan snapped.

The gunman smiled. “Why do you think that is?”

“How would I know?” Phelan demanded then leveled his gaze on the man beside

him. “What did you think of the Citadel?”

“I’ve been to worse places,” Fontabeau answered with a grin. “Those Shadowlords

sure had their knickers in a bunch while they were questioning me.”

His remark amused Phelan and the Reaper began to relax. “They don’t like

surprises—especially the High Lord.”

“Kheelan, isn’t it?” Fontabeau queried, and at Phelan’s nod he chuckled. “Certainly

doesn’t like it when you don’t answer his questions, does he?”

“Could have slapped you in a con cell,” Phelan told him. “They don’t play games at

the Citadel. How did you get past telling them what you are doing on Terra?”

“Mainly because I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Fontabeau answered. “She

brought me here, told me to hire on with Brell, to protect his ass at all cost, and to keep

tabs on what he’s up to but not to interfere. I’m supposed to keep a low profile, not let

anyone know I’m one of Her Reapers. There hasn’t been anything strange going on that

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I can see—leastways not with him—so all I’m really doing is cooling my heels and

waiting for Her to tell me what She wants done.”

“Nothing strange with him,” Phelan repeated. “But maybe elsewhere?”

Fontabeau leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and lowered his voice.

“The miners are an odd lot,” he said. “Every last one of them. News of the mine

reopening hasn’t spread that far as yet but we get young men coming in on a weekly

basis, hoping to make their fortune. You see them today—smiling and laughing, eager

to go to work—and a few days later they’re nowhere to be found.”

“So they don’t strike it rich and ride out,” Phelan said, knowing that wasn’t the

case.

The gunman shook his head. “No, that ain’t happening. They go into the mines

with their brand-new picks and shovels but they don’t ever come back out.”

“Have you gone down into the mines to check on the disappearances?”

“What do you think?” Fontabeau said with a steady look.

Reapers were claustrophobic at the best of times. Some handled it better than others

and there were the rare warriors who had overcome their fear. Caves could be tolerated

to a point, but going into a mine was something else. For most Reapers, any time they

had to go deep underground they became nervous. The farther down they went, the

worse the phobia became.

“Someone is going to have to,” Phelan said.

“Aye, well, it ain’t going to be me,” Fontabeau insisted. “I died in a cave-in.”

“That’s rough,” Phelan commiserated. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to trek

around down there.”

“Makes me wonder what the fuck She’s up to, you know?” Fontabeau stated. “She

has plenty of Reapers out there beyond Terra. Why me? Why here?”

“Well, if it isn’t the handsome Cajun boy.”

Both men turned to see Lucy walking toward them, the long red velvet skirt of her

dressing gown swishing from side to side as she moved. Her long red hair hung down

to her waist in a single tidy braid and her lovely face had been scrubbed clean of

makeup. As a result, she looked much younger, even prettier, and not at all like the

jaded proprietor of a whorehouse.

The Reapers stood and Phelan pulled a chair out for her. She kissed him on the

cheek before sitting. Her vivid green scrutiny switched to Fontabeau.

“Have you two been discussing me, Cajun?”

Fontabeau smiled. “I hate to disappoint you, Lucy-Lou, but your name never came

up. We were discussing other things.”

“Reaper things no doubt,” she said, staring into his eyes.

Phelan gave Fontabeau a questioning glance.

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BlackMoon Reaper

“Aye, she knows,” Fontabeau said with a sigh. “Don’t ask me how, but she knew

the minute I put a hand to that shapely ass of hers what I was.”