The Treasure of Devil’s Crag
Two rival pirate captains…one treasure…the competition isn’t
the only thing that heats up between them
Hours later, when she finally crested the mountaintop, she was sweaty, tired, annoyed. The brown, arid land seemed harsher here, more barren. The sun relentless. She circumvented an outcropping of boulders and wiped the dust from her eyes, only to be confronted with the sight she dreaded most—a squadron of men already encamped before a fissure to the east, a wide-open cave.
And then, as if things could not be worse, she heard his voice, the rich baritone she hated to love. She signaled to her men to take cover and ducked back behind the rocks, not wanting to be seen. Her lungs seized when he emerged from the cave, and time stopped, denying her breath. She gaped at him, unable to help herself, blown away by the full impact of his presence. He was so goddamn appallingly handsome, it was sickening. Since the last time they’d met, he’d chopped his golden blond hair short, a messy, casual style which curled around his ears and left a bit of fringe hanging charmingly over his brow. At his full height, he towered over most of his men, with broad shoulders and a body lean and strong. His every movement was elegant, graceful, and hard-earned muscle rippled beneath his tailored coat and skintight breeches. With his close-cropped goatee, tanned skin, and ridiculously beautiful hazel-green eyes, he cut quite the dashing figure, and it was no wonder he made all the barmaids swoon.
And certain female pirate captains, too, it seemed. Her throat dry, she devoured him with her gaze, drinking in every detail. She wanted to bite down on his collarbone, rake her nails through that exposed bit of chest hair, lick the long column of his throat. She wanted to dig her fingers into his flesh, bask in the heat of his breath, drown in the scent of him. Electric hunger crackled along her nerve endings, and she shivered, the fine hairs on her body aflame. Given the chance, she would have him again and again, take him, use him, fuck him for pleasure, for spite, for a good, old-fashioned fucking ride. And he would never forget it. She’d make sure of that.
“Right, men,” he declared, whomping her back into the present. His deep voice still held the inflection of his native England, even though he’d left Queen and country, and the Royal Navy, over a decade ago. He raised his hand over his head, showing off a fat, gold statue resting in his palm. “There’s plenty to go ’round. Let’s make quick work of it and retrieve what we can.”
She watched with dismay as his crew organized themselves to excavate the cave. She’d lost the race. There were only two options now. Be bold or go home. She never was the retiring sort. She stepped out from behind the rock, planted her feet, and called out his name.
He turned, surprised, but his expression quickly morphed into something much more…primal. The look in his eyes was dark and appreciative, and it spoke to the most primitive force within her, the one which wanted to raze and consume.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Cassie Dean, the Creole Queen,” he said, and there was that grin, that fucking cocky grin. He held up the statue for her to see. “Too late this time, my sweet.”
She drew her sword with her right hand and extended her left toward him. “I’ll be having that now.” She wiggled her fingers. “If you please, sir.”
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