Dark and Dangerous

223 Pages·2010·0.71 MB·English

by  Anwar Celeste

An anthology of erotic paranormal romance
DARK and DANGEROUS
with stories by
Celeste Anwar
Angelica Hart
Marie Harte
Goldie McBride

ISBN 1-58608-349-x
Beauty Ravished, © copyright June 2004, Celeste Anwar
Dream Shadows, © copyright June 2004, Cynthia DiSciullo
Blackthorne’s Light, © copyright June 2004, Marie Harte
The Dark One, © copyright June 2004, Goldie McBride
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Beauty Ravished

by

Celeste Anwar
© copyright June 2004, Celeste Anwar
Chapter One

There was more beautiful male flesh on the estate lawn than you could see in a
month of Fridays in any club in Atlanta. Cherry Roman had heart palpitations
just looking at their bodies glistening in the dwindling sunlight on a white sandy
beach. Sheri would weep when she found out what she’d passed up.
The horizon was beautifully striped in gaudy colors in every hue. The setting sun
perched above the golden sea like a ball of fire, clouds rippling out from its
center domination of the sky in bold streaks of scarlet. A breeze carrying the
scent of salt and sand swept across her damp skin, offering some relief from the
nearly unrelenting humid heat of a Southern summer. Though she was nearer to
the equator here than in her apartment in North Georgia, the air coming off the
water made the weather seem cooler than it actually was.
Her skin itched slightly from sea salt and dried perspiration, making her long for
a shower. She could forget her discomfort though, gazing upon the scene laid out
before her.
She hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder, leaving the dock and retreating
ferry behind as she strolled up the pathway to the hotel that looked more like an
enormous private beach house than a commercial property. There wouldn’t be
another ferry until Monday--no going back now, not that she particularly wanted
to. She thought perhaps Sheri was right in passing off her own invitation to
Cherry--a weekend at this retreat would certainly put the hideous outcome of her
life into perspective. Or, at the very least, there was plenty of eye candy to
distract herself from her problems. She didn’t have to worry about work. She’d
been laid off from her job indefinitely due to severe cut backs, but at least she
had enough severance for this little vacation.
Cherry tried not to think about how dumb it was to spend any of it. She shrugged
the disturbing thoughts off, determined to enjoy herself while she could.
She lost sight of the glittering beach and half naked men as she progressed up
the hill to the lodge. The trees stooped and curled over the path like tired, noble
sentinels, twisted from the heavy caress of ocean air. Traversing the lane, she
could see a pine forest lay beyond the hill, and could make out the edges of a
could see a pine forest lay beyond the hill, and could make out the edges of a
concrete patio and pool spread at the back clearing around the building. There, a
buffet of undeniably male forms lounged, as well, soaking in the dying rays of
sunlight. She frowned and quickened her step, cresting the rise to the hotel’s
entrance, eager to check in and get started relaxing.
A large screened in porch, decked with padded, wrought iron chairs faced the
view of the ocean. Ferns ascending the stairs in urns rustled in the shifting
breeze, touching her leg as she passed too close. A porch swing hanging at one
end creaked and slowly moved on its chains, as if recently vacated, but she saw
no one enjoying the picture perfect view from the top.
Strangely enough, she hadn’t noticed any women on the island. Then again, she
hadn’t come across any of the guests, just from afar. Of course, she and Sheri
had assumed this invitation was to one of those parties where they tried to sell
you expensive condos, so it could be the women were off touring while the men
lazed about. Who knew?
Wide, glass paneled doors marked the entrance, and Cherry pulled them open
and strode into the lobby. The large open area was filled with coral and sea foam
brocaded chairs and couches arranged in small groups for private conversations.
Muted bulbs lit the space, giving it a soft, welcoming glow. Along one wall
stood a marble-top counter and luggage station, but she saw no concierge or bell
hops.
Puzzled by the absence of hotel staff, Cherry headed for it anyway. She hadn’t
taken but a few steps toward the empty counter when a soft, accusing voice
spoke behind her, "What are you doin’? You don’ belong here."
The deep, accented baritone slid a frisson of alarm up her spine, unnerving her.
Cherry turned slowly around, trying to appear as if she did belong. Maybe it was
just supposed to be men here and they’d thought Sheri a man somehow?
Her heart seized as her gaze landed on the owner’s voice. He was standing at the
foot of the stairs, leaning against the baluster. She’d read clichés in books her
entire life about meeting the man of your dreams, the epitome of how a man
should look and move—and they were so true, down to the smallest reaction.
She could barely breathe, barely comprehend anything around her—her entire
focus was directed on the stranger. Even his accusation was lost as her mind
stumbled around, taking in his every feature.
He looked like he’d just come from the beach, and she thought she could even
detect the scent of salt water in the air, but surely it was her imagination. His
skin was a dark olive, richly tanned and captivating against the open-necked
white shirt he wore. He looked as though he’d just shrugged it on, for only half
the buttons had been fastened, and even at the distance, she caught a glimpse of
toned chest. His black hair was wet, finger combed back off his forehead, but a
few random locks had escaped and fell across his brow in rakish disarray.
He sent her a narrow-eyed glare across the room. When she made no answer--or
move to leave--he strode across the floor space and stopped directly in front of
her, invading her space until she was forced a step back just to look up at him.
Up close, he was fiercer than she’d imagined possible, potent, like the bars of a
cage had just been raised.
"Excuse me?" she managed in spite of her suddenly dry mouth. Oh god. Green,
intense eyes looked down at her beneath straight, angry brows. His was the kind
of look that sent women in one of two directions—either straight to his bed or
home to her own to huddle beneath the covers. She was torn. On the one hand,
her galloping heart was commanding her feet to do the same and flee before she
was devoured. On the other, the moment the word ‘devoured’ entered her mind,
her pussy went into melt down and her knees turned to jelly.
She wasn’t sure why her reaction was so extreme, but she sensed that this man
was dangerous in ways she couldn’t even imagine. Despite the trappings of
civilization he seemed … savage, his manner inherently untamed.
He crossed his arms over his chest, making his shirt gape. The movement drew
her gaze like the needle on a compass. Her belly clenched as she stared at his
pecs, sculpted to perfection, covered with a sprinkling of hair. "Why are you
here?"
"I received an invitation—"
"No, you didn’t," he said impatiently, cutting her off.
"I did. How would you know that I didn’t? I have it right here," she said, rooting
through her purse.
"‘Cause I’m the host, Nigel Francoeur."
Cherry stopped her search and looked up at him, feeling her face redden under
Cherry stopped her search and looked up at him, feeling her face redden under
his scrutiny. She would’ve rather had her teeth pulled than to have to admit that
she’d crashed such an exclusive party, but there was no hope for it. That being
the case, she summoned the ‘helpless female’. "I’m sorry. I admit, I wasn’t
originally invited, my friend was." She held out her hand, which he ignored.
"I’m Cherry—Cherry Roman. Anyway," she added, dropping her hand once
more, "she couldn’t come, so she passed it on to me. There’s no harm in that, is
there? And, I’m here now."
He was silent a long moment. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "You have to leave.
Now."
The man didn’t have one sympathetic bone in his body. She’d spent much of her
severance traveling here. Now she’d have to go back without even some pleasant
memories to sustain her.
All of a sudden, everything that had happened beset her like a wall of dominos
she’d carefully stacked to the ceiling. She’d done her best to look on the bright,
keep her chin up, stave off the temptation to just fall on the floor and kick her
heels and wallow in her misery. This trip had been her panacea, however. It was
going to cure her ills. She was going to have a good time and relax and she’d
figure out what to do when she’d had just a little breather from the battle she’d
just lost.
Except now she wasn’t going to get it. Now, she was going to have to face the
fact that she’d blown money she couldn’t afford to on a vacation she wasn’t
going to get. It took a supreme effort of will to ignore the sting of tears in her
eyes and nose. "I can’t," she said, her chin wobbling. She swallowed, forcing
herself to calm down. "The last ferry is gone. I … I barely made it here as it is."
He closed his eyes as if searching for patience. When he opened his eyes again,
he stared past her at the setting sun. His face tightened. He gave her a hard look.
"It’s just as well. Come, I’ll show you to your room."
"Really?" She felt instantly better, even though he didn’t look like he was very
happy about the fact that she couldn’t leave.
He glanced toward the glass doors again. "It’s gettin dark. It’s too late. You can’t
leave tonight anyway."
He had his hand on the back of her waist, riding her hip, all the way up the stairs
He had his hand on the back of her waist, riding her hip, all the way up the stairs
and down the hallway to the room he took her to. If it had been a cattle prod, it
couldn’t have been any more galvanizing. It seemed to burn a hole right through
her clothes, right through her flesh and forked outward to spear her erogenous
zones electrifyingly. She didn’t know if it was that that made it so difficult to
catch her breath, or the fact that she traversed the entire distance trying to outrun
that hand.
The room was beautiful, far more elegant than anything she’d ever experienced
in her life--it looked like the sort of room only the filthy rich could afford, from
the elegant furniture, to the carpet that was so thick she felt like she was walking
through water, to the king sized bed filled with pillows.
As chaotic as her emotions were after what she’d already experienced, she was
still awed enough that it penetrated her emotional roller coaster ride, striking her
deaf, dumb and blind.
"You will stay here. Is that understood?"
Cher turned around and gaped at him. "This is my room?"
He frowned. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the door and strode toward her.
Cher blinked, too surprised even to think about retreating from the purposeful set
of his face. He caught her jaw, forcing her to look at him--though why, she
wasn’t certain. She’d looked up instinctively the moment he came to tower over
her so threateningly.
"I must have your word that you’ll make no attempt to leave this room this night,
chere."
Cher blinked at him, wondering idly whether he meant chere--as in, he was
Creole, or Cajun, which would probably explain his devastating dark good
looks--or if he’d somehow figured out she was called Cher--maybe she’d
mentioned that?
She must have nodded. He seemed satisfied. After a moment, he released her
and strode from the room. She was still staring at the vibrating door when she
heard the distinctive click of a key turning in a lock.
That tiny little sound acted on Cher’s tumultuous emotions like a healthy dose of
Metamucil on a clogged pipe line. She went stone cold sober on the instant.
Metamucil on a clogged pipe line. She went stone cold sober on the instant.
She stared at the door disbelievingly. He’d locked her in! That dirty, low down,
rotten, son-of-a-bitch had locked her in! He’d let her think she could stay after
all and enjoy her vacation and then he’d escorted her to a prison cell!
She didn’t give a fuck how elegant the prison cell was!
Stalking toward the door, she grabbed the knob and twisted it a couple of times.
It was locked.
She started beating on the door. "Let me out, you son-of-a-bitch!"
She pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear anything.
Small wonder considering the carpet in this place!
"Hey! You can’t do this! I had a perfect right to use that damn invitation!"
Sighing gustily, she gave up beating on the door. It hurt her hands, and it was
obvious he had no intention of coming back.
"Some fucking vacation," she muttered, turning to survey the room. She was
going to be stuck here all weekend--because the damn ferry wasn’t coming back
before Monday!
Furious, she searched the room for a phone. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find
one. Finally, she dropped her backpack on the bed, dragging everything out of it
and eventually unearthed her cell phone. "Ha!" she said, dialing 911.
She got a recording saying her service had been disconnected.
"Shit!" She strangled the phone and then pitched it across the room. It hit the
wall with a satisfying thunk, but it didn’t damage the phone. Walking over to it,
she smashed the thing with her heel until it was no more than fragments and then
left it and went to sit on the bed to sulk.
Her stomach growled.
She was going to give that gorgeous asshole hunk a piece of her mind when he
came to bring her supper.
If he came to bring her supper.
She realized after a little while that she was tired of sulking, and she was bored.
Sighing, she decided to check out the bath. That’d be entertaining for at least ten
or fifteen minutes.
There was a TV and a DVD player. She doubted, considering where they were,
that the TV would pick up anything. Like she couldn’t watch frigging DVDs at
home!
The bath was really luxurious. Despite her determination to feel abused, she felt
her mood lighten a little when she saw it had a whirlpool . Adjusting the water,
she left the tub filling and went back into the bedroom to rifle through the
clothing she’d brought. She was irritated all over again when she saw the sexy
undergarments she’d brought--just in case she ran into anyone interesting.
As if she was going to run into anyone locked in her room!
A twenty minute session in the whirlpool did wonders for her mood. By the time
she finally crawled out, her muscles were like putty--not a tense one in her entire
body. When she’d dried off, she pulled the under things on.
The under things consisted of a barely there thong and a nearly transparent bra.
She liked feeling ‘bad’.
Unfortunately, at the moment she felt more drained than like a femme fatale.
Trudging back into the bedroom, she sprawled out on the bed and winked out
like an extinguished light bulb.
She wasn’t certain what woke her. One moment she was dead to the world, the
next she was conscious. Yawning, she rolled over and stretched, smiling faintly
at the decadent feel of the thick, silk coverlet beneath her. Finally, reluctantly,
she opened her eyes.
Nigel Francoeur was standing over her, a dainty tray with a dainty sandwich,
obviously forgotten, in his hand.
The expression on his face sent a shock wave of heat through her. Her mouth
went dry. Her nipples got hard.