Relief surged through her, but quickly evaporated. A perverted killer hadn't invaded her kitchen. Oh, no. She was simply insane. Wonderful. Just freaking wonderful.
CHAPTER TWO
Regardless Of Personal Feelings, Your Master Must Be Treated Respectfully
Monday morning Julia opened her shop thirty minutes latea first for her since she usually arrived an hour early. The problem? She'd overslept. All the blame fell on Mr. Half-Naked Body's massive sun-kissed, delectable, mouthwatering completely lickable shoulders, of course.
All night she had endured vivid, realistic dreams where he did, in fact, please her body, touching her, caressing her. Pleasuring her. Several times! When her alarm clock erupted in its shrill ring, she'd simply been too tired to rise.
At least she'd been smiling.
She wasn't smiling anymore.
With her thoughts so fixated on Mr. Body, she'd scratched a late Victorian walnut chair, decreasing its value by at least a hundred dollars. Next, she had dropped a 1950s vase, shattering the precious crystal into a thousand tiny piecesanother three hundred dollars in the garbage. But best of all, she had stepped in a pile of dog poop on her lunch break. Now, even though she'd scrubbed her shoe clean, the scent of puppy a la manure followed her everywhere.
Julia uttered a sigh. She needed a distraction to keep her mind off this increasingly atrocious day.
As if hearing her silent plea, an eerie whistle drifted from the back of the shop and greeted her ears.
"No, no, no," she muttered. With a grimace, she massaged her temples to ward off the sudden ache. The store's bathroom pipes were acting up again. She almost stomped her foot. This wasn't the kind of distraction she wanted. Left with no other choice, she gripped the phone and punched in her landlord's number. After the third ring, a gruff, craggy voice answered.
"Hello."
"Hi, Mr. Schetfield. It's Julia Anderson. I'm calling to see if you've hired anyone to fix the plumbing here at the shop."
"The plumbing's broke?" A stream of air crackled over the line, and she pictured him smoking one of his cigars. "When did that happen?"
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stay calm. Try to forget that you've phoned him three times in as many weeks about this problem. Could be worse, Julia. You could be imagining Mr. Body's luscious navel and the dark hair that plunged
Argh.
"The toilet doesn't flush," she reminded her landlord. "The sink turns on and off of its own free will, and the pipes are making that noise again. Something needs to be done, Mr. Schetfield. Soon." She pinched the bridge of her nose, imagining another week of closing the shop to run next door every time she needed to pee.
In such a prime location, gaining business from surrounding restaurants and boutiques, she paid an exorbitant amount for rent. An exorbitant amount she didn't mind paying because she loved the old Mexican-style building. Plus, she hoped to expand one day soon, and there was enough space here to do that. But Mr. Schetfield's miserly ways were pushing her to the edge of her tolerance.
"I'll take care of the problem," he said. "Don't you worry."
Since that was exactly what he'd told her the last time she called, Julia didn't allow herself to hope he spoke the truth. "Why don't you tell me how much you're willing to spend. I'll call a plumber and make sure he doesn't exceed your limit."
"No. That just won't work." The old man's rough voice crept a notch higher. "I want my son, Morgan, to do the job. Good boy, my Morgan."
"All right." She sighed. "Please call me in the morning and" The bell over the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer. Julia hurried to end the conversation. "Just let me know what time Morgan will arrive, okay?"
"Can do."
The connection severed. She replaced the phone in its cradle and strode to the front of the store. A tall pleasant-looking man dressed in a suit and tie stood in the entryway, a bewildered, what-do-I-do-next expression on his face.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" Julia asked, drawing his attention.
"Yes. Yes, there is." His lips lifted in a relieved smile. "This is going to sound strange, but I'm searching for a glass donkey. My mother collects them, and her birthday is tomorrow."
"Any color preference? Or era?"
Surprise flashed in his big brown eyes. He shook his head. "No. I'll take whatever you have in stock. I've been to six different antique dealers. You're my last hope."
"I have two here," she said, her pride evident. "Does your mother prefer blown glass or etched?"
"I'm not sure." He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Why don't I buy both?"
"Excellent choice." In the center of the store, Julia climbed a gray step stool and rooted around a shelf for the desired items. A few seconds later, the tinkling of the doorbell sounded again. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled warmly when she saw who had arrived. "Good morning, Mrs. Danberry."
"Morning, dear." Mrs. Danberry, a regular customer of Julia's Treasures, gave her quintessential "old woman" curls a pat. Immediately the springy silver bob bounced back into place. "I came to see if you have anything new."
"Yesterday I acquired a corncob pipe that I know you'll love. I'll have it ready for viewing in a few days."
"Oh, wonderful. I'm still going to have a look around, though. I might've missed something the last time I came in."
"Of course." Still grinning, Julia returned her attention to the shelf. When she found what she needed, she lifted the donkeys from their perches and eased to the floor. "Here you go," she told the man, bequeathing him both items. "Are these what you had in mind?"
He palmed each one in a different hand. After studying them, he blew out a satisfied breath. "Yes, they are. They're perfect, actually."
"The first is a seventeenth-century model made from"
"No need to explain," he interjected. "I'm already sold on them. You just saved me a lecture about a son's responsibility to his family."
A chuckle tickled her throat. "Glad I could be of assistance."
He tilted his chin and gave her a lingering onceover. He cleared his throat. "You know, you have very pretty eyes."
His words, though innocent, caused her tongue to thicken, a familiar sensation whenever she spoke with the male species about, well, anything remotely flirtatious. She quickly lost her good humor. "Uh, Iuhthanks. You, too." After that, speech became impossible. She tried anyway, managing another «uh» and two grunts.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
Her cheeks warmed. She nodded, though what she really wanted to do was slink away and hide. The admiration slowly faded from his expression. He gave her a strange perusal, paid for his donkeys and left without another word.
"You really should work on your technique, dear," Mrs. Danberry said, strolling to the cash register. "He might have asked you on a date."
Julia squeezed her eyes shut and let her head sink into her upraised hands. Was it too much to ask for God to strike her down with a bolt of lightning?
That night, Julia lay underneath a downy comforter, tossing and turning. When she actually slept, she once again dreamed of Mr. Half-Naked touching her. Kissing her. Their naked, sweaty bodies tangled together in passion. She'd lost count of how many "Oh, Gods" she'd uttered.
Why did her dream lover refuse to leave her mind? And why was she still lying in bed, allowing him to slide those phantom hands over her nipples, down her stomach and slip inside her panties? Circling, grazing, sinking deeply into her. After two more "Oh Gods," Julia scowled and lumbered wearily to her feet, sweeping aside the gauzy, cream-colored canopy that enclosed her bed. She needed something to do, something that was totally and completely unpleasurable.
Her taxes! Yes, that was it. She marched into her office, grabbed her books and carried them to the kitchen, where there was more room to work. She plopped into the nearest chair, an eighteenth-century brocade bench she'd acquired at an estate sale several years ago.
Five minutes later, she shoved the books aside with a growl. She was tired, crankyokay, she was still arousedand the numbers were blurring together. She needed something else to do.
Since her newest acquisitions were still strewn across the table, she picked up the jewelry box. She'd never discovered what lay inside, had she? She tried to depress the lid's latch, but her finger shook and refused to make contact. Brow puckered, she tried again. Once more, the shaking stopped her. What was the problem? It wasn't like Mr. Half-Naked and his sword would reappear.
You're thinking about him again, her mind tsked.
"For God's sake," she muttered, jabbing the button. "This is ridiculous." Lights flickered throughout her house. Purple mist drifted upward. An intoxicating scent of masculinity surrounded her. This time, Julia didn't jump up, didn't drop the box atop her hard-carved tabletop. She simply bit her bottom lip, staring wide-eyed as Mr. Half-Naked did, indeed, appear. He was still half-dressedand he still carried a sword. "Omigod." And not a good, this-feels-so-wonderful omigod, the kind that had filled her dreams. But a bad, what-the-hell-is-happening omigod. Julia gulped. "I'm having a nightmare. That's all it is."
She rubbed a palm down her face, blinked her eyes and shook her head, thinking such a gorgeous creature would vanish by the time she refocused. His extraordinary image never even wavered. He isn't real, she mentally chanted, slowly rising to her feet. He isn't real, he isn't real, he isn't real.
Step by agonizing step, she approached the wildly savage apparition. He wore a let's-get-this-over-with expression and not much else. Those pants. That sword. Slowly, shakily, she reached out and poked his chest once, twice. The heat of his skin singed her both times, and she finally jerked back, jaw slack.
This wasn't her imagination. This wasn't a dream.
What kind of man could appear and vanish in less than a single breath? Man was he even human? Could he be a genie? Yesterday he had vowed to fulfill her every wish and desire. No, she thought. That wasn't possible. Genies were a myth. But what if genies did, in fact, exist? The thought continued to tease her mind, battering against her beliefs. Didn't her sister, a highly respected archaeologist, often say there was a bit of truth to every tale? There was only one way to find out. "Leave," she whispered to him. "Leave right now." His scowling countenance disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Three minutes passed, then four. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, and each tap pounded in her ears like a war drum. When she felt enough time had elapsed, she sucked in a deep breath, reached out and jabbed the button again. Just like before, the lights flickered. Purple mist erupted. Mr. Half-Naked's clean, unique fragrance invaded her nostrils.
Then, suddenly, he was frowning down at her, his swirling violet eyes alight with irritation. "What is it you wish now, little dragon? This coming-and-going nonsense must cease." A genie, she thought, awed. She couldn't deny his existence and wasn't even sure why she'd wanted to. He was an exquisite specimen of manhood. So exquisite, in fact, she wouldn't be surprised if he had grade A one-hundred-percent pure beef stamped on his butt.
Gathering her courage, she spoke. "Welcome to my home, genie."
His brows knit together in confusion, and for the moment, he didn't appear quite so menacing. "I am a man. A warrior."
She paused. "But you have magic powers."
"Only in the art of seduction."
"So you don't grant wishes?"
"Nay. I do not."
"Oh." Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. "What exactly do you do?"
"This I have told you once before. I entertain, converse and protect. But most importantly, I supply the female bodyyour bodywith untold bliss."
He could have been filing his fingernails for all the excitement in his voice. Still, the man flat out admitted he wanted to wanted to Her tongue began to feel heavy, preventing speech. This man, this nongenie, wasn't hitting on her, she reminded herself. He wasn't asking her out on a date. More than likely, such a dangerously handsome male found her unattractive. Repulsive, even. That thought eased her discomfort, making her tongue feel normal again, but a hollow ache sparked to life in her chest.
She studied him. He looked capable of anything, anything at all, and she found herself wondering what his limitations were. "So you're saying that if I want you to clean my toilets, you will?"
"Toilets?"
"Lavatory. Chamber pot. Powder room."
"Aye, I have cleaned many of those."
She wanted to laugh at his disgruntled expression, but the sword strapped to his waist kept her quiet. Surely he didn't have to obey her every whim. "What if I want you to crawl on your hands and knees to polish my floor? Or what if I want you to dust every single one of my antiques with your tongue? Or eat a mud pie because I spent an hour baking it?"
"Would those things bring you enjoyment," he said, a feral glint entering his mystical eyes, "they would be mine to do."
His words surprised her and should have made her happy, but suddenly Julia was overwhelmed with pity for him, to always be reliant on someone else's pleasure. Other men probably dreamed of being caught in just such a circumstance. A sexual object. Not this man. He was tense and edgy, and self-loathing radiated from the hard stance of his body.
Silence permeated the room for a long while.
Julia didn't know what to say, didn't know what to tell him that could make the situation more bearable for him. She felt a bombardment of guilt for even suggesting he do those awful things for her. Well, no more. Really, what did she need a slave for? Nothing, that's what. She enjoyed cleaning her home, cooking her own mealsnot mud piesand she didn't like others handling her antiques, unless they planned to buy them.
She would not treat this man as a slave. He was a human being and deserved more. She'd treat him like the big brother she'd always wanted.
Just admit it, Julia. You simply don't have the courage to take him up on what he's really offering.
She gulped. "What's your name?"
"Most call me Pleasure Slave, or simply Slave."