Passion's Dream (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 1)

PASSION’S DREAM

Julie Shelton

BOOK ONE OF

THE DOMS OF PASSION LAKE

Virginia is for lovers.  Passion Lake is for…kinky lovers.  Welcome to Passion Lake, a town owned and operated by a group of ex-Navy SEALs.  A town where they are free to live their kinky lifestyles without fear of interference or censure.

Passion’s Dream

When Clay “Raven” Nighthorse is offered a job as bodyguard to a woman being stalked by her vengeful ex, he’s ready to turn it down.  Until he discovers that she is the woman he met on a beach three years ago.  The woman with whom he felt an instant connection.  The woman who has been haunting his dreams ever since. 

Leah Stanhope has never forgotten the day she found her husband in bed with another woman.  Nor has she forgotten the kindness and compassion of the complete stranger who’d simply held her in his arms and let her cry herself out on a public beach.  She despairs of ever seeing him again until fate brings them together in a conflagration of desire and smoking hot passion.  Can Clay convince Leah to risk her heart?  And when her stalker finds her, will Clay be able to stop him in time?

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COPYRIGHT PAGE

Passion’s Dream

Copyright 2015 by Julie Shelton

Ebook ISBN:

First Ebook publication, January 2015

Cover design by Rhiannon Ayres

All cover art and logo copyright 2015 by Rhiannon Ayres

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Letter to Readers

Dear Readers,

If you have purchased this copy of 
Passion’s Dream,
thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

Regarding E-book Piracy

This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

The author worked very hard to bring the paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

This is Julie Shelton’s livelihood. Please respect Ms. Shelton’s right to earn a living from her work.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to you, Jill.  You are my beta reader, my critique partner, my encouragement, my support, my noodge, my friend.  Thank you for your generosity of time, your willingness to brainstorm ideas (and what hot and naughty ideas they are, too), and your invaluable research and technical assistance.  You not only make my books better, you make my life better.

PASSION’S DREAM

JULIE SHELTON

Copyright 2015

CHAPTER ONE

Clay Raven Nighthorse got out of his Ford F150, put on his aviator-style sunglasses, and took a deep breath.  He waited for just a few extra seconds before straightening his shoulders and heading across the parking lot toward the sleek, two-story, concrete and glass building on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia.  Obviously inspired by the National Museum of the American Indian on the Mall in Washington, D.C., its swoops and curves and sandstone color perfectly captured the sweeping grandeur of the American southwest.  Which, in his mind, made it very much an oddity in hide-bound, tradition-minded Virginia.  At first he’d considered dressing up in a suit for this meeting.  Instead, he’d come straight from working on his ranch, wearing a western style shirt, cowboy boots, and jeans.  At least he’d taken off the leather chaps he’d been wearing and had replaced his work hat for the Stetson that currently sat on his head, black, brand new, and with a hand-wrought silver and turquoise band.  He wore his long, thick hair untethered, letting it flow down his shoulders like an inky waterfall.

He didn’t know what he was doing here.  He’d never met Everett Burke, the man he was here to see, and had no idea why he’d sent for him.  Burke hadn’t even contacted him directly. Instead, Adam Sinclair, of Sinclair Securities, who occasionally hired Clay for specialized ops when he needed an extra man, had called him, insisting he was the only man for this particular job without telling him any of the particulars beyond the client’s name.  All Clay knew about this job was that he wasn’t particularly looking forward to meeting Everett Burke, who was actually related to him by marriage.

Eight years ago, Rosemary Nighthorse, Clay’s cousin and a weaver of extraordinary skill, had left their small town in New Mexico and run away to San Francisco to marry Everett Burke.  He was the owner of an upscale art gallery, where her exquisite wall-hangings sold for enormous sums.  Her departure had been abrupt and unexpected.  She had invited none of her family or friends to the wedding.  Nor had she ever returned to New Mexico and Clay blamed Everett Burke for that.  She’d never even called, not once in all that time, and had ignored the calls Clay had made to her, and he blamed Burke for that, too.  Four years later she was dead from an overdose of sleeping pills and, instead of returning her body to New Mexico, where she belonged with her ancestors, her husband had buried her in San Francisco.  Clay blamed Everett Burke for all of that, too.

He almost hadn’t come here today.  But his curiosity had gotten the better of him and here he was.  He walked through the front door, welcoming the immediate blast of cold air provided by the air conditioned interior.  The only truck available to him had been the one whose AC was on the fritz, so it had been a hot ride into Richmond from his ranch.  He lived in Passion Lake, a thriving little community in the Virginia foothills.  He and eleven of his former SEAL teammates had purchased a bankrupt town and turned it into a thriving tourist attraction.  As he looked around, it was obvious that Burke’s gallery was definitely upscale, with exquisite paintings, pottery, weavings, sculpture, even baskets and jewelry, all done by skilled Native American artists.  Each piece was displayed to its full advantage, inviting visitors to spend as much time as they wanted admiring their particular favorites.  Clay didn’t know how into southwestern art the horsey set of aristocratic Virginia was, but those who were into it, were definitely getting the biggest bang for their buck in this gallery.

A lovely young woman with the dusky skin, straight black hair, and facial features of a fellow Native American walked toward him, extending her hand in greeting.  “Hello.  I’m Kaya Birdwing.  Welcome to Skysong Gallery.  Is there a particular artist or piece you would like to see?”

Clay watched her slow up-and down appraisal of his appearance, her feminine eyes frankly admiring his hard, muscular, warrior’s body.  When her eyes darkened, he just gave her a casual smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and had her catching her lower lip between her teeth, telling him that with very little effort he could have a bedmate for the night. 
Sorry, sister, not interested
.  “Actually, I’m here to see Mr. Burke.  And, yes, I do have an appointment,” he added hurriedly to forestall her inevitable next question.

“Of course.”  Disappointment in her eyes, she nodded her head and turned toward the back of the gallery.  “Right this way, please.”  She opened a door and ushered Clay into an outer office tastefully decorated and comfortable looking.  An older, gray-haired woman dressed in a deep purple suit looked up at their entrance.  “Naomi, this gentleman, Mister…”

“Nighthorse,” Clay supplied.

“Mr. Nighthorse says he has an appointment with Mr. Burke.”

“And so he does,” said the gentleman standing in the door that had just opened.  “Hello, Clay, thank you for coming.  Please…” he stood aside, gesturing for Clay to precede him into the inner office.  Closing the door behind him, Everett Burke went around a large mahogany desk.  He stood behind it, facing Clay, gesturing toward a comfortable-looking leather chair.  “Please, have a seat.”

Clay looked around casually.  The well-appointed office was modern and immaculate and functional.  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” he said, standing next to the chair and removing his Stetson, holding it in his hands.  “I’m afraid we had a fence break we needed to mend right away before I could leave the ranch.”

“Please don’t worry about it,” Burke said with a dismissive gesture.  “Naomi told me you’d called to say you’d gotten a late start.  I know how much hard work there is to do on a ranch, so I’m just grateful that you could spare any time for me.  Please.  Sit.”

Clay sank down in the overstuffed armchair and placed one ankle across his knee, balancing his Stetson on top.  For a long moment the two men eyed each other in silence.

Everett Burke was an elegant, refined man of around sixty years of age.  His silver-gray hair was short and neat, and matched his mustache and goatee.  He had been born in England, the youngest son of an aristocratic family and had moved to the U. S. as a boy of thirteen.  He had made his rather large fortune dealing in art and antiques for an ultra-refined super rich clientele that included both European and Middle Eastern royalty, with some Hollywood heavy hitters thrown in.  He was dressed in a black Armani suit, with a lavender silk shirt and darker lavender silk tie.  He looked very dapper.

Clay, on the other hand, looked exactly like the scruffy, rumpled working cowboy that he was.  There was nothing refined about him, not his chiseled Native American nose and chin, nor his beautifully-sculpted, male-model lips and high cheekbones.  His straight, blue-black hair was long, hanging halfway down his back.  Despite the fact that his outward appearance was so totally at odds with the understated elegance of Everett Burke’s sleek decor, Clay Nighthorse looked right at home in this modern yet genteel room.  Because of the way he carried himself, with supreme confidence and a certain level of power and authority that made him perfectly at ease in any situation.

“I wanted—“”

“Why did you—“”

Both men began speaking at once.  With a small laugh, Everett Burke inclined his head and gestured toward Clay.  “You first.”

“Why did you want to see me?” Clay asked directly.  “Adam Sinclair didn’t give me any details other than that you had called him looking for me.”

“Actually, I called Jesse Colter, since he was your commanding officer when you were in the SEALs.  He said you often took temporary assignments with SinTech on a job-by-job basis, so I called Adam Sinclair.  I am in need of your services for a job.  A very special job.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “How did you know that Jesse Colter was my CO?” he asked.

Instead of answering, Burke opened the center drawer of his desk and drew out a photograph.  He pushed it across the desktop toward Clay.

Leaning forward, he reached out and picked it up to look at it.  All the breath left his lungs as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. 
Jesus Christ!  How can this be possible? 
He stared at the woman in the photo, drinking in all the details that had lately become so out of focus in his dreams.  This was the woman he’d met three years ago on the beach in San Francisco.  The woman with whom he had spent less than twenty minutes, and yet who had become an integral part of his nightly dreams.  He’d never forgotten her and at times had come to fear he never
would
forget her.

Her long hair was a rich, golden blond with red highlights that seemed to absorb the sun’s rays and glow with inner fire.  In the photo it hung straight down, thick and shiny and beautiful.  On the beach that long-ago day, long, thick locks of it had been lifted and teased and tossed about by a playful wind.  The photo was only a head shot, but Clay had no trouble remembering the rest of her lush, even voluptuous figure, with long, slender legs, firm, high breasts and a nice, round ass, one that had fit his lap perfectly.  She’d been wearing some sort of long, gauzy dress that had made her seem…impermanent.  Ethereal.  As if she were a magical creature from an otherworldly realm who, through some misfortune, had stumbled through a rift in time and been transported to this realm.  She had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her cheeks wet with tears.  None of that had mattered to Clay.  All that mattered was that he wanted, no
needed,
to stop them. To do everything within his power to help her.

He had approached her, striding across the sand, trying to make enough noise to alert her to his coming.  But he had startled her, making her jerk back away from him, panic in every line of her body.  “Please, please, don’t be afraid,” he’d begged, keeping his tone gentle and extending his hand out to her, palm up, as if he were trying to gain the trust of a frightened animal.  He saw her glance frantically around and knew she’d just realized how alone she was, how deserted this particular stretch of beach.  Alone with a very large, very intimidating man.  “I promise I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, “looks like someone else has already done that.  I’d just like to help, if you’ll let me.  Sometimes talking about things, even with a stranger—
especially
with a stranger—can help put things into perspective.”

She raised her eyes to meet his.  They were a pale green, like pieces of sea glass held up to the sun.  And they were filled with bitterness and betrayal.  “Perspective,” she spat.  “I just found my husband in bed—in
our
bed—with his new assistant!  You wanna put
that
in perspective?”  She turned and started to walk away, then turned back to face him.  “And on top of that, after kicking me out of my bedroom—
my
bedroom—he told me he was filing for divorce and taking me for h-half of everything I o-own!”  She began sobbing once again, turning away from Clay and taking a few stumbling steps down the beach.

Acting purely on instinct, Clay had caught up with her.  Turning her around, he’d pulled her against him, ignoring her feeble struggles.  Sinking down to the sand, he’d sat there cross-legged, holding her on his lap, murmuring words of comfort, giving her permission to just let herself go and cry herself out.  And she had done just that, sitting in his lap, gripping the fabric of his T-shirt so tightly, it was a wonder her fingernails hadn’t poked holes through it.  After the last, quiet, hic-cupping sob had shuddered through her, she’d just leaned against his chest within the sheltering circle of his arms, letting him hold her as exhaustion claimed her.  Clay had closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her in his arms.  Inhaling the light, flowery scent that smelled expensive and exclusive and unique to her and her alone.  Drawing it deeply into his lungs as if he were storing it up so he could take it out later and immerse himself in it.

Too soon, she’d stirred and Clay had known the exact moment she realized where she was, who she was with and what she was doing.  He’d also known that she was going to flee.  She began struggling to get to her feet, while he was having his own inner struggle with his sudden, inexplicable need to continue holding her.  In the end, common sense had won out and he’d let her go, putting his hands around her waist and lifting her up, helping her as much as he could from his seated position.  He’d decided he would appear less threatening from that position.  He hadn’t wanted to tower over her and make her fear him.

She’d stared down at him, aghast, hand over her mouth.  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I—”she gestured toward his chest, eyes wide with distress—“I got you all wet!”

“Well,” his lips quirked and he’d flicked his hand toward the water.  “This is the beach, after all.  I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t expect to get wet sooner or later.”

“But, I mean—you—I didn’t—I never should have—Oh, my God!  You’re a stranger!”  Then she’d turned and run up the beach away from him, skirts flying, hair streaming out behind her like fairy floss.

Clay had sat there, watching her go, feeling all the warmth drain out of his chest, returning him to his own world and his own troubles.  He hadn’t even gotten her name, but he’d known even then that he would never forget that encounter.  He had finished his walk on the beach that day, but he’d finished it alone, with her scent lingering on his shirt and in his nostrils.  He still had that shirt in the bottom his T-shirt drawer, still stained with her tears, sealed inside a plastic zip-lock bag to retain as much of her essence as possible.  He’d never laundered it, never even opened the bag, afraid that the scent would dissipate and the shirt would become nothing more than just an old, stained T-shirt in a long line of old, stained T-shirts.  Every time he came across it looking for one of his current favorites, he’d just stand there shaking his head at his foolishness. Someday, he told himself every time he tucked the bag back under the rest of his shirts.  Someday I’ll either take it out and wash the damn thing or throw it away
.  Yeah.  Someday
.