Tortured Heat

By Delta Dupree

Living in Denver kept Dionne Garrison off Mitch Maguire’s radar after their first blazing encounter that destroyed her common sense. Her heart is too vulnerable and the playboy is too hot to handle. Now that Dionne is within his sights, Mitch can’t resist chasing the sexy creature who has dominated his psyche for months. One night is all he needs. One perfect night of seduction should restore his tomcat mentality enough to evict Dionne from his memory bank. Right? Heh. Too bad Mitch screws up when Dionne is stronger than either one believes. Too bad for everyone when all hell breaks loose during the wedding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delta Dupree
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310295652

Delta Dupree

Delta Dupree writes as hot as the desert southwest heat where she lives. She and her husband, another romantic at heart, are avid travelers. While touring exotic locations throughout the world, reading has always been Delta's pleasure, but writing novels is her passion. Inspired by the people and the places she has visited, Delta enjoys inventing characters and stories in which lust, love, and destiny move readers' hearts. Visit Delta Dupree & Chayse Manning at their website--www.deltadupree.com--and view their published novels.

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TORTURED HEAT

DELTA DUPREE

Copyright © 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

*****

Chapter 1

DIONNE expected…no…she knew beyond a shadow of doubt another grave error had begun its proverbial tailspin when never-ending battles between genders raged on, but Joni Hammond had been her best friend since forever.

"Why does he have to be there? she asked. Why can’t you claim the wedding’s been moved up, moved to another state or continent? Get him on a plane, send him someplace overseas. Siberia’s good. I’ll contact the Russian Embassy while he’s en route, say he’s a spy."

Stop it, Dionne, Joni admonished.

I know. Remember Earl’s friend, Hainrich something or other, the Pole whose last name is about fourteen consonants and no vowels? I’ll have Earl contact him. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

Puh-lese.

Dionne knew she sounded desperate, and yes, she was more frantic than a mouse caught in a compromised position, certifying a fat cat ready to pounce. She rambled onward to get her point across. Besides, Fletcher has Abe as escort down the runner. We don’t need him. You don’t. I’ll pay for his flight, payoff Hainrich, too. You won’t have to chip in a damn dime.

Don’t get snippy, Ms. Garrison, Joni ordered. Fletcher wants his brother at our wedding.

She sucked in an exasperated breath. She didn’t despise Mitch Maguire; she simply didn’t want him nearby. Too many daunting attributes about him—a wickedly gorgeous package like his brother, minus some war wounds—put her ill at ease.

They’d shared a few kisses, electrifying as they were, after group emotions had run rampant last Christmas, the night Mitch and Fletcher had risked their lives to save less courageous folks.

Then Mitch tried to get between her legs. Fortunately, she was smart enough to keep her thong on, secure enough to keep her knees snapped together, and strong enough to walk away. Ran at top speed. She left Phoenix on an earlier flight than she’d originally planned, escaped and did not furnish an address or phone number. Excellent that they lived in different cities, different states. His brazen sexuality weakened her, caused her resistance to wilt if not disintegrate entirely.

Then, make a demand. You’ve got Colonel Maguire wrapped snugly around your slender pinkie. He’ll do whatever you ask, whatever makes you happy.

I said, stop it.

It’s true. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. She laughed out loud. Everybody knows it’s true.

Silence dominated their phone connection. Stepping too far over the boundary guaranteed Joni’s silent treatment, plus some.

Don’t force your bloomers into a wad, Dionne advised. "The drama queen said she’d whined for nine damn months. Heffah still whines about life in general, and her baby’s six years old!"

Audra caused everybody’s eyes to roll, tap danced on everybody’s last fragile nerve. How her husband handled a spineless woman, no one knew. She was still good people, would do anything for her friends.

Laila said she didn’t want kids because she was born an RB, and she is our royal queen bitch. Nobody can teach an old wench new tricks. She said she didn’t want her children duplicating her, couldn’t handle a ten-sass-factor, diva daughter. Made sense to me. Needing to ease tensions, Dionne added, You’re different, Joni. You don’t whine or bitch or resort to tears to get what you want.

No response.

Do you?

I’m thinking of making a move. I want to relocate the wedding to Vegas.

A sterile beat of silence.

What? Dionne hadn’t intended to elevate her voice two octaves, causing other bank employees to stare into her office. Hold on. She scrambled off her executive, leather chair and closed off access to snoopers. Back at her desk, she put her friend on speaker. Do you or do you not want me to stand by your side?

Thanks to her gambling parents, who’d blown every dime she’d ever given them, Dionne avoided Sin City as if rabid skunks swarmed the area.

Look at it this way, Joni said. We wouldn’t need to spend so much time in preparation. Nassau requires too many ahead days. Long, long distance communication, travel and set up, which is why you’re my matron of honor. I need your expertise, your help on arrangements. Vegas would be so much easier, so much closer to home. She took a quick breath and blazed onward. Remember, I teach a class starting in late-July, plus I have two back-to-back shows. San Francisco and Chicago. Can’t seem to get into my pieces either. I think I can convince Fletcher, which would keep us from taking a month off for festivities. A week of gambling and bright lights should be enough to satisfy him.

Dionne tapped her favorite gold pen against a glass paperweight—birthday gift from her oldest sister—while staring at Denver’s panoramic cityscape and the beautiful Rocky Mountains on a spring morning in May, shutting out Joni’s hypothetical reasons for a venue change. Contemplating. I’ll stay home.

Don’t start, Dionne. You’d only have to spend three, maybe four days in Mitch’s company. Short flight from Denver, warm temp—

A city nearly as hot as where you live now. I hope you realize the temperature can hit one-fifteen or higher in July. It’s no different from Phoenix, both lacking natural, crystal clear waters like a tropical island because it evaporates! Besides, gambling havens require clothes. I’d have to pack heavy.

Pack heavy for a few summer days?

And nights. Clothes, shoes, purses, accessories. Can’t be seen in Vegas looking raggedy. For Dionne, dressing raggedy anywhere—anytime—was taboo. Furthermore, she continued, I don’t want Fletcher pissed off, blaming me because you’re manipulating him. I’m not attending.

Gosh, Ms. Manners, I love your helpful ways. You’re running a distant second to my good friend Teri.

Second? She and Joni had been BFFs since first grade. I believe subtle and prickly was what Fletcher called your demeanor, Ms. Hammond. Before he…lately, you’ve mutated into— Hearing a telltale beep, she glanced at her cell phone. Total connect minutes blinked, indicating the call was finished, not signal lost.

Damned if Joni hadn’t hung up on her.

She pressed speed-dial number two. Four rings later, her friend picked up. Fine. Vegas. Don’t mention my name to your fiancé or I’ll tell Fletcher every damn—

Dead quiet again, damn her.

One more time and we’re through.

Dionne reconnected. Let me know the date he sets. He’ll understand if you tell him I can’t be away from work more than a few days if you make up some minor fib. Tell him I have a conference I can’t miss. Oh, the tangled web of deceit. We should do a scouting run in Vegas. Soon. Tackle a few arrangements early so we can book dates. Church, flowers, cake, and caterer. Check out hotels, restaurants, etcetera. Get your invitation list together. We can’t do much worthwhile until we have numbers.

Small wedding. Chapel.

Doesn’t tell me one iota, Hammond, Dionne snapped bitterly, getting more pissed off as each second ticked by. This Mitch thing had set off a teeth-grinding syndrome while she held her breath listening for another disconnected void.

Ask and you shall receive, Joni replied. Fletcher’s busy painting. Tonight, I’ll make his favorite meal and pick up some chocolate mousse, then suggest a change.

As if cooking his favorite food would make a difference. He loved everything she put on his plate, especially smothered pork chops, potatoes, greens and homemade biscuits. Fletcher loved the hell out of Joni Hammond whether she cooked or not.

And suggest? Joni wouldn’t leave any room for argument. Even if she did, her fiancé would, inevitably, lose. She was the luckiest heffah on Earth when it came to the men she let romance her. For a picky broad, males loved Joni to death. They’d never risk jeopardizing their relationship. Well, one had, but crazy Sylvester didn’t count. Not anymore.

I’ll also have him write his guest list since he’s working on a newspaper clipping. Why Fletcher wants to announce to the world that we’re getting married, I don’t understand, seeing how we’ve both been married before. Joni chuckled. Leave it up to him, we’d have to endure a weeklong, ritzy affair. Dinners, cathedral wedding, two hundred guests, and three-week honeymoon. This way, he’ll know his parents won’t show up. They hate Vegas as much as you do, from what Mitch said. I’ll still make Fletcher send them an invitation. They might surprise us.

"You obviously don’t need a honeymoon to knock off some booty. What’ll you use to threaten him if he doesn’t agree? Kick him out of the master bedroom, make him sleep in the casita? I bet your apricot bitch will help you run him out of his own house. I’ll be ecstatic the day you unload, Dionne clarified in her nastiest tone, so you can get back to your normal self. You manipu—"

The nerve.

She tucked her Android phone inside her Coach purse and closed the desk drawer, knowing Joni would call eventually to tap into her know-how. Wedding plans, party plans—any social event—and the girls, a squad five-strong, habitually contacted Dionne to supervise and handle technicalities.

She’d thought about self-employment once upon a time. Thankfully, her banking job made for a lucrative position and great benefits, especially when her boss surprised her four months ago. Dollars were unimportant. The civil court judge had awarded Dionne a substantial portfolio and monthly monetary support. Divorcing Troy was a huge payday, one lasting a lifetime provided she didn’t remarry. She would most definitely stay single because she’d put Troy’s balls in a vise grip for good reason. Why let him off easy? Denver’s one-time basketball MVP couldn’t keep his zipper zipped or his willy inside his tailored trousers.

Sometime soon, though, she’d have to map out a plan to handle Mitch Maguire. She’d added Phoenix’s top playboy’s name to her ex-husband’s category.

Slut.

The day had gone from bad to shitty. Actually, Dionne’s life had veered down hell’s ugly alley two weeks straight.

First, catastrophe hit the bank—robbed of a quarter million dollars and change early one Monday morning, terrifying employees and customers.

Dionne was occupied in the ladies room at the time the heist began. She nearly sauntered right into the thick of things until she saw people laid out on marbled floors in eerie quiet, some sobbing softly, others mute from genuine fear. Unnoticed, she edged back to safety and dialed 911. As the hushed call ended, a single gunshot scared the living hell out of her. She stayed hidden in the last cubicle where she stood on a toilet. Inside five minutes, a dressed down SWAT member kicked the locked door in, had his rifle aimed at Dionne’s belly. She dropped her purse in the toilet and screamed.

One security guard had been mortally wounded, shot while assailants fled. The killer thieves were quickly identified and rounded up incident-free. Jilted girlfriend had snitched.

Second, Dionne’s brilliant ex-husband’s attorney filed another petition to lower alimony payments, continuing her hellish trek. Fat damn chance if she’d allow Troy to claim insolvency. She told her attorney about his new wheels. Bentley, no less.

Early this morning, ten minutes after Dionne sat behind her work desk, Joni called. She had Fletcher lapping goodies from her palm. He agreed to Vegas. Who knew what Joni had said or done to convince him?

The worst came three hours later.

Joni was snappish. On her demanding say-so, Dionne left work early. In a rush, she packed everything she might need—some things she probably didn’t—and caught a late-afternoon flight into Vegas. She arrived at McCarran Airport about the same time as Joni and Fletcher. They’d rented a stretch limo to transport their three-party entourage to Caesar’s Palace.

Scouting runs normally included bride-to-be and matron or maid of honor. Evidently, Fletcher wanted a say in chapel pickings and whatever else came to mind.

Then, at Caesar’s, Abe showed up, his usual frown in place.

And Mitch stood beside him.

You could’ve told me, Joni, Dionne whispered harshly. She avoided Mitch’s penetrating gaze and ignored ding-ding-ding chimes from nearby slot machines. Both grated on a single nerve. Why not get hitched tonight at an Elvis Presley chapel and be done? All except one wedding party member is here. Thank somebody you didn’t bring your shaggy-assed she-rat. I could make like a vampire, take my happy butt home by sunrise.

I didn’t know they were invited! Her lethal, hazel glare might peel her fiancé’s skin from bone. Dionne’s skin always stayed attached. Fletcher must’ve asked them here. He didn’t tell me, darn it.

He’d mentioned he was overwhelmed by female domination in a house he’d purchased before meeting Joni, a woman who’d taken him off the market effortlessly. Between his fiancée and Jazz—his bitchy, apricot poodle, the she-rat—obviously he wanted backup. As if backup would help. His future bride ran everybody’s life.

Wait until I get him upstairs, Joni said menacingly.

He’d heard her, stopped talking to his partners in mid-sentence. Fletcher turned slowly, glowering, and held his hand out. Here’s your keycard. Room number’s written on the back. Have the bellman take luggage up and whatever else you might need. The guys are grabbing a brewsky.

Uh oh.

Imaginary steam fueled by animosity percolated between them.

Once Joni snatched plastic from his hand Fletcher swaggered away, joining Mitch and Abe. He had giant gonads to taunt her in public. Taunt her anywhere. ManLaws couldn’t hold a match to the temporary Queen of the Damned and no man could walk away from Joni unscathed after blatantly riling her temper.

What do you say we sit and order wine? Dionne asked, breaking the sudden tension, ideally taming a hostile woman’s threat and retaliation. Joni could star in the sequel to Diary of a Mad Black Woman. To cool off.

Rocky start for a supposed scouting run. Knowing how much her temperament had shifted to an un-holier-than-thou side ever since she jumped pregnant, Joni might sabotage scouting plans.

Good idea. She faced Dionne. Something unsavory shined in her eyes. I’ve got a better one. Wait here.

Oh, hell. Now, hold up. Don’t do—

Luckily, Joni wore soft-soled wedgies. She strutted away stiff-legged, opposite Fletcher’s direction, taming any risk of public fiasco. Stilettos would’ve made a racket, drowning out sounds from deafening slot machines and raucous patrons.

Dionne leaned back against a tall, Roman-style column, arms folded beneath her breasts, staring at her surroundings, barely hearing an array of noises. Her light, peach-colored sweater over her sundress ensemble offered little to combat chilly air conditioning. Flying in from Denver, the chill was worse. She damn near froze. Should’ve worn jacket and pants. First class was unavailable, which meant worthless, thin blankets for a ridiculous price. She’d suffered through the ninety-minute flight.

People hurried in and out swinging doors, chattering, in a rush to do whatever. Others busily played their favorite machines: video poker, slots, keno…Vegas was so impersonal, even in Caesar’s Palace beautiful setting.

Done, Joni said, eradicating Dionne’s reverie. Let’s go have some wine.

Abraham Wilkes plucked a ten-dollar bill from his shirt pocket and slid it toward a tanned bartender sporting sun-streaked, blonde hair who had plunked their beers atop polished teak wood. Surfer boy laid change beside Abe’s hand.

That little show of affection ought to put you in a private doghouse for a week. Even Jazz’ll snub you, he said.

Fletcher swallowed two gulps of his Samuel Adams lager.

You must enjoy the brass yoking you to attention.

Yoke? For what? Mitch asked. He sat on Abe’s right. Fletch hasn’t done a damn thing wrong. He simply let her know who wears pants in his house.

Abe slanted him a glance. Uh huh. If I remember correctly, Joni wore navy ones today, dark as a black eye. For a grown man, Mitch didn’t know squat about women except for what they had between their legs and what they were willing to give up. He’d learn one day. Is that really how love works, Colonel? A tug ‘o war about pants?

Love has nothing to do with it, Mitch injected.

Nearby, bells rang. Sirens went off. A guy whooped. Maybe a first-time visitor won the big one. In pennies. Hallelujahs were in order.

Abe waited too many seconds while his partner chugged most of his lager. He swiveled his gaze toward Fletcher’s reflection in the wall mirror, made eye contact with blue fire. Held it.

Don’t start, Abe, Fletcher mumbled. I know what I’m doing.

Do you?

Colonel Maguire squinted, seemed to think about it like he did when they were on the battlefield.

Or are you attempting to prove something real stupid our man team already knows? Abe took another swill from his Budweiser. Maybe your brother’s impressed, but I’m not. By the look on Joni’s face, neither was she.

Aw, cry me a river. Mitch signaled for another round. Fletcher smartly begged off. She’ll get over it. Women always do.

Uh huh, Abe murmured. Not always. He’d foolishly thought the same long time ago. Women were an unpredictable species man could not live without—like air, food, water.

I’d better check to see if our luggage arrived intact, Fletcher said, sliding off his barstool. He drained the bottle.

It’s a start.

It’s stupid, Mitch said. He slapped the bar top, drew nervous attention from passersby. More than a decade after 9/11, people continued balancing on pins, needles, and nails. My Ben Franklin says she’s done what you told her to do and, now, she’s patiently waiting to cozy up.

Fold, Fletcher replied.

Smart move, Abe advised. He watched a blushing stream creep up his partner’s neck as he tugged at his collar.

Pussy, Mitch murmured under his breath.

Say that shit again, Mitchell, Fletcher snapped, his bass tone unforgiving.

Mitch stood as if making a challenge, but he didn’t have big enough balls for a retort. Fletcher’s implacable glare held him at bay. Many a soldier hightailed for cover when the colonel’s deadly glower landed squarely on them. Not Abe.

No? Fletcher growled. Then shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.

Arguments rarely flared up between them.

Mitch was four years younger than Fletcher’s forty-six, also weakest of the half-brothers. His father had married their mother. Mitch had a bad start in life and, naturally, Raymond Maguire’s DNA child could do no wrong. Heartless, although, Ray had adopted Fletcher—in name only—he’d left his stepson out of the family’s circle of love. Their mother had fallen into deadbeat territory as well.

For years, Ray groomed Mitch to take his place as Maguire Galleries’ curator. His son stepped in easily at the call to duty, although, Mitch had been a player where his brother had well over two decades of hardcore military service backed by solid muscle and discipline. Fletch was not a man to jack with when incensed. Or anytime.

Seeing his big fists flexing, Abe said, Go on. I’ll keep a muzzle on him. He shot Mitch a glare as Fletcher stalked away. Sit your punk ass down.

Abe, also, was not an Army soldier to needlessly test, although he had been honorably discharged from the military. Same as Fletcher. They’d gone through plenty together, were still under threat. Both worked for Thorndike Security Industry. Government contracts. Overseas assignments catching eyes, ears, and attention from various extremists—Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, Taliban, to name a few. Hard to break a good soldier’s old habits. Recently, he, Fletcher, and many other notable U.S. soldiers had been quietly alerted and warned by the brass, even on American soil. ISIS sympathizers were the latest threat to the West’s security.

Abe often wondered if there had ever been a time without major conflict in the world.

Always trying to start shit, he accused. Got your damn nerve. You couldn’t keep a good woman—any woman—if you’d tied a strangling noose around her neck and attached handcuffs to steel beams embedded in concrete. Egotistical little bastard.

Bullshit. What’s bugging you? Jealous?

In your dreams, asshole. He rested his forearms against the polished countertop, spinning his full beer bottle between thumb and fingertips.

I don’t see anybody chasing you down. In fact, your last girlfriend—

Shut your mouth, Abe cut in.

He was in no mood to go down another dead-end street. Sure, Charlotte had walked out on him. Not only did she leave Phoenix, she left Arizona. Abe hadn’t gotten over an unanticipated void in his life after living together two and half years, after their four-year relationship. He thought they were in serious like. He wanted to move their relationship up a notch or two. She wasn’t ready. He’d bared his soul, professed his undying love. Charlotte turned her back on him.

Caesar’s noise level was close to rupturing. Mitch spoke loud enough for Abe’s listening. You gave too much of yourself.

Maybe so. He’d given Charlotte all he had to offer: his love, his heart, and his damn money. Not to mention she’d maxed out his credit cards. Left him nothing in reserve. Charlotte took all she could get then walked away from him anyway. She’d used him, jacked up his mind, and left him broke as hell. Abe had gone down on his knees, begging her to stay.

Fool.

Yeah, well, it happens to the best, he replied and downed more Budweiser.

Forget love. Twice, he’d tried it on for size. Neither fit was perfect, although the first failed relationship was totally his fault, his stupidity.

Life was too short. Love too complicated. His manly emotions and foresight too unreliable. What bugged him most, he’d probably do the same, stupid crap if Charlotte showed up on his doorstep one day, painful as it sounded.

Not to me, Mitch argued.

Your day will come. Bank on it.

Like hell.

Uh huh. If you say so. Abe chugged froth, then set the bottle aside. Remember this, Mitchell. Don’t come crying to me, or go blubbering to your brother, when a certain woman turns you inside out, flips your life upside down. You’ll be jonesing so hard you won’t know whether to shit or get off the pot. Mark my word, son. There will always be a woman out there capable of piercing the meaty flesh between your flared nostrils with her version of brass.

His cell phone vibrated against his chest. Abe plucked it out of his shirt pocket, checked the caller’s name. What now? ’Sup, Colonel?

Chapter 2

"I thought we were getting wine," Dionne said.

We are, Joni replied.

Then, why are we in a taxi?

Joni ignored her. Driver. Bellagio’s.

What? Dionne blasted. Caesar’s has good bars. I need to unpack my clothes.

You will. I rented a suite for us.

Dionne’s mouth fell open, chin on the verge of hitting her lap. Oh, for God’s sake, Joni, she whispered harshly. Fletcher will go completely off.

"Tough. He should’ve thought about going before he got stupid. Don’t worry. I sent his luggage up. I also canceled your room. So, you and I have three or four days to play."

For the love… You’re jumping too far out of bounds on this one, girlfriend. He loves you and you love him. You’re expecting his baby! Your hormones must be skewed.

Ignored again.

Criminy. She couldn’t let Joni leave Caesar’s all by her pregnant self or flit around Vegas alone. They were friends. Friends stuck together better than Superglue in good times and in bad. But Fletcher was Joni’s Wonder Man, soon to be her husband. In theory.

Dionne sighed. You know I don’t like to be tossed in middle of some hell unless I start it. Let me talk to him.

Too late, Joni replied icily.

The ride didn’t take long. Six or seven minutes. Dionne, however, would’ve loved to shop on the way to Bellagio’s. All those overpriced boutiques called out her name.

Somehow, she had to convince Joni that she was in error by moving, by slipping away sub rosa. No doubt, Fletcher was pissed off, or running around frantically looking for her. Had to give it to Joni. She was marrying a true lover and protector, a guy who’d destroy any potential threat to her well-being. He’d willing die to save her life. Fletcher loved her profoundly—more and more every day, he’d said.

Lucky heffah. Joni should be ashamed for putting him through hell.

The cabbie parked at the curb and climbed out.

Are you absolutely sure you’re doing the right thing? I mean, damn, Fletcher—

We’re here, aren’t we? And while we’re here, I don’t want to hear his name. Got it?

What? Come on, Joni. You’re supposed to get married soon. What do you mean you don’t want to hear his name? He’s your fiancé!

Was.

Dionne screwed up her face. For crying out loud, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You know how men are, always attempting to prove something to nobody important. I bet he’s running around in circles, knowing he shot his mouth off, made the wrong statement. I bet he’s trying to find you to—

A suited bellman opened Joni’s door, cutting off Dionne’s last words as the cabbie wrenched her door open. She was not one to put her business or any friend’s business in the streets.

Cute as