Acres, Natalie - Sex Club [Cowboy Sex 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (3 page)

Mitch would soon be released from prison, and Jordie Anne couldn’t stand the thought of him returning to Trixie Cartwell. She wanted him happy, but she knew what was best for him. She needed to look in Mitch’s eyes and know she was still the only woman he cared about. The only one who mattered.

Even if she returned to the mental facility and forever remained locked away, Mitch’s heart belonged to her. Someday, they’d be together, live a short while as man and wife, but that wouldn’t happen right away.

No, after she completed her goals, Jordie Anne would be expected to pay for her sins. And that was all right, probably fully expected by those who once managed her care.

Most of her caretakers at the mental facility often called her out as a zombie. Forced to take continual rounds of meds, Jordie Anne had been in a constant stupor. Perhaps if the doctors had followed the initial orders from the judge, she wouldn’t have gained the opportunity to meet up with Ms. Trixie Cartwell. She wouldn’t be faced with the grand opportunity of looking her in the eye and saying, “Die by my hand as the love my husband once carried for me practically died by yours.”

Diabolical laughter fell from her lips. She picked up the picture again and thought of everything Trixie Cartwell had stolen from her. She’d spent years in that hospital with nothing more than a tiny window leading to a dimly lit hallway. She’d sacrificed memories she’d never be able to build. She’d forfeited happiness, endless smiles, children, and family. And for what?

Tightening her grip, she pulled the paper stiffly between her hands until the impression was distorted. Then, she ripped the image in two.

“There,” she muttered. “Soon you’ll know exactly how it feels when someone you’ve never met tears your life completely apart.”

* * * *

“The crazy lady is on line two,” Max Murdoch said.

Grant Murdoch stroked a four-day growth of beard. He glanced out his office window, staring down at Main Street, three stories below. “Tell her I’ll call her back.”

Max walked over to Grant’s desk, picked up the phone, punched the second button, and immediately pressed the first, disconnecting the call.

“What’d you do that for?” Grant asked.

“I’m not dealing with her.”

“You haven’t been ‘dealing with her,’ I have.”

“True,” Max admitted. “But she’s still our problem, and she won’t go away. Who would’ve thought a surplus-store employee would’ve been able to afford our fees?”

Grant sat in his executive leather chair. He fumbled through some documents stuffed inside a manila folder. “She’s Mitch Colony’s wife. I’m sure she has an allowance from the Colony family. Even though Mitch is imprisoned, his family would take care of his wife until he’s released. You and I both know she wouldn’t be able to survive on her meager earnings. She works for minimum wage at a part-time job.”

“The Colony family isn’t supporting her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Grant muttered. “She came in last week to pick up the photographs and paid another three grand.”

“About those pictures,” Max said, sitting on the edge of Grant’s desk. “You’re probably not gonna want to hear this.”

“Tell me you didn’t pick out some random gal like you did the last time we couldn’t locate a subject.”

Max thinned his lips.

“Max, come on! We have a reputation to build! How long before something like this bites us in the ass?”

“It’s not as bad as it seems,” Max assured him.

“Explain that.”

Max took a deep breath. Upon exhaling, he said, “No one in Fletcher, North Carolina, ever sees much of Trixie Cartwell Sheldon. She’s married now, by the way, but for some reason Jordie Anne still refers to Trixie by her maiden name.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know the Cartwell woman tied the knot.”

“Or doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact,” Max suggested. “Anyway, Mrs. Sheldon lives on a farm with her husbands—she has two of ’em from what I understand—and rarely goes out. Evidently, she survived a recent and quite difficult pregnancy. After the baby was born, her husbands became overly protective. From what I discovered, the only place she visits is her parents’ place. The exception is a rare appearance at a family business, some kind of kink club right outside the city limits.”

“According to Jordie Anne, Trixie was a prostitute,” Grant stated flatly.

“A prostitute? Are you kidding me? Mrs. Sheldon is a model citizen. She bakes cookies, sends money to charities, and as far as personal connections and intimate relationships go, from what I’ve gathered, she only dated the two fellows on her arms now. No one can remember seeing her with anyone special in high school. No one mentioned a boyfriend after graduation. Apparently, she spent one summer working at Cow Camp here in Virginia. She went home with the two men she later married, Brock Sheldon and Rory Matthews.”

“How the hell does a Southern woman marry two…never mind.” Grant cleared his throat. “What’s important here is why Jordie Anne is so interested in Trixie Cartwell.”

“Trixie
Sheldon
. And beats the hell out of me.” Max shook his head. “I gotta admit, I was afraid Jordie Anne planned to reconnect with some of her kin. I took a gamble anyway. She’s been locked up in that institute for several years, and people change over the course of five or six years. I would’ve claimed the mishap was a simple mistake in identity if she’d mentioned something suspicious.

“She didn’t, which concerns me all the more. You would think a woman hiring a private investigation firm for pictures would at least know the person she wanted photographed.

“Jordie Anne is a strange one,” Max pointed out. “In any event, I took a shot in the dark and substituted one sister for another. Trixie is a hard woman to find, so I located the next best thing. Those images you passed along to Mrs. Colony were taken at Clink, the club I was telling you about. The gal in the snapshots is Trixie’s younger sister, Ansley Cartwell.”

Chapter One

One Week Later in Fletcher, North Carolina

Ansley strolled into Clink wearing tight-fitting jeans and fire-engine-red high heels. With the sound of her shoes tapping out a nice little rhythm, she strutted across the empty dance floor and worked her moves better than most women might. Then again, Ansley didn’t know many gals who stayed in the gym two hours a day. She’d earned the right to add an extra sway in her hips, with or without an audience.

Lately, the latter was the case. It was as if she took center stage at a sold-out show no one took the time to attend.

Even when her staff lurked around in the background, they seldom gave her a second glance. She’d become disturbed by the lack of attention. Apparently, after she hit the ripe old age of twenty-two, things went downhill.

The thought brought a wide smile to her lips. She marched over to the wall of mirrors, turned around, and glanced at her bottom. Hmm, things might have been a little rough relationship-wise, but at least her hips were still in shape, on the chance she gained an opportunity to shake them like she meant to work them. If only she could find a suitable man to pleasure, or vice versa.

Yeah, right. The fellows who held her interest for longer than a minute either had a woman on their arm or collected their paychecks from Clink.

Besides, since Patience and Kimberly deserted her, she’d worked around the clock. Who had time for a social life? Glancing at her watch, she balked at the thought. Sure enough, the ten o’clock hour approached. It was time to look busy.

She rounded the corner and headed toward the kitchen. That’s when she spotted Clink’s very handsome, and totally sexy, bar manager. He’d worked at Clink for about six months, and Ansley had been tempted to jump him since his first day of employment. “How’s it going, Bailey?”

His muscular arms were loaded down with a couple of liquor cases. Those mossy-green eyes lit up like sparkling, brilliant stones the very second he saw her. With sandy-brown hair and lightly tanned skin, Bailey’s good looks placed him on the single woman’s radar. Customer or not, Ansley always tried to discourage female interest. Whenever she was out and about in town, she made sure the locals knew—Bailey was off-limits.

“We’re expecting a crowd tonight. There’s some kind of event out at Killian’s place. I’ll drive over to the warehouse and pick up some more whiskey and rum. We’re running short.”

“Hurry back.”

“Why, Ansley? Will you miss me?”

“You know it, sweets,” she sang, already preoccupied by what he’d told her.

Killian’s Stables often hosted large equestrian events, and those in attendance usually found their way to Clink after the exhibitor’s party. Ansley’s heart struck a high note and beat a little faster after Bailey’s local update. She knew of at least two fellows who’d make their way to see her once the club started hopping.

Before her panties dampened with thoughts of Elliott and Graham Killian, she entered the kitchen. With a rowdy bunch expected, the last thing she needed was the sudden urge to slip behind her office door and tug out the good old vibrator. She could at least wait until the Killian men showed up to offer a little eye candy for the cause. With any luck, they’d drag her off to her sister’s private suite.

Entering the back galley, she sought out the walk-in cooler. Every day started with a quick inventory of food. With Killian’s followers added to the regular crowd, they’d need more appetizers than usual. She didn’t want to listen to hungry cowboys and demanding equestrians bitching because Clink’s menu was short on the nourishment needed to carry them into the night.

Giving the heavy door a tug and swing, she stepped into the refrigerated unit and kicked aside a metal chair used to prop open the cold-storage compartment. After the door slammed behind her, Tristan darted out from behind a tall stack of boxed produce.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he asked, rushing by her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she drawled, sarcasm thick on her tongue. “Since I own this place, I didn’t realize permission was necessary if I wanted to enter
my
cooler.”

Tristan wiggled the release bar on their only means of entry or exit. The long lever dropped to the floor. “Well too bad there isn’t anyone above you. If we could locate someone perched that high, maybe he’d take care of business around here. If
you
reported to a boss, then perhaps I could speak to
him
about fixing this door.”

“Super,” she muttered. “I need one more male chauvinistic pig in my life.”

“I’ll ignore that comment since you’re clearly under duress.”

“Works for me. I can turn a deaf ear, too.” Ansley studied the large piece of dented metal. “We’re locked in?”

Tristan stared at her blankly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, say something. You always come across like you’re so full of knowledge, the kind of fella who can rush to a woman’s aid when she needs a strong man to help her. The least you can do is prove that thick head of yours houses more than dirty thoughts about the opposite sex. Back it up when it matters. Act like Rambo and kick in that door, then yank me over your shoulder and carry me to safety before the enemy—in this case we’re probably talking frostbite—is upon us.”

“You’re something else, aren’t ya?” A dry chuckle slipped from his lips. He gave her a thorough once-over. Starting at her neck, his hot gaze trickled over her like rain. Suddenly, he seemed more interested in perusing a woman than talking about how they might remedy their current problem.

“I try my best to entertain,” Ansley said, placing her hands on her hips. Fully aware of his wandering eye and where he lingered the longest—at the low-cut dip of her shirt—she struck a pose. She couldn’t resist. “Are we trapped or not?”

Tristan was a hunk of a man, sexy and dangerous. Even though she wasn’t sure if she liked him or not, she savored the gaping. A few weeks had passed since she’d last been doused in a man’s appreciation.