Whirlwind
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press, Inc. publication.
Whirlwind
by
Layla Chase
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Whirlwind
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Layla Chase
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, March 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-838-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To devil-may-care spontaneity
PRAISE FOR AUTHOR
Layla Chase
AND HER BOOKS
NAUGHTY IN NORWAY
"This was a nice little story about a vacation fantasy we've all probably had a version of at some point. Dissa is away at a ski resort in Norway, where she is working as an American in Oslo. I appreciated that the author laid some groundwork before jumping into the sex. I thought that added to the story, and it certainly added to my own enjoyment of it."
~Aster, Whipped Cream Reviews
Whirlwind
Senna Whitefeather strode into the San Antonio Alamodome, her long heavy braid bouncing between her shoulder blades. Anticipation at being a first-time exhibitor in the World Tattoo Convention put a spring into her steps.
At the entrance, people wove in a crisscross pattern, jockeying for the fastest track to reach the display booths. All around her, conversations buzzed, adding to her excitement. She lifted the plastic badge slung around her neck, angled it toward the security guard then turned left toward the area of her designated booth. And bumped smack into a male—solid muscle from chest to knees—and she stumbled.
Firm hands grasped her upper arms and steadied her. “What’s your hurry?”
The deep voice rumbling near her ear resonated through her bones, kicking up her heart rate, and set her further off-balance. Both hands tangled with the supple cotton of his T-shirt and held tight. All she saw before her was a broad expanse of black cloth. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—” She glanced up—straight into midnight black eyes that seemed to look deep into her soul. Her gaze clung for a long moment then she forced herself to blink.
The stranger smiled and the bronze-toned skin around his eyes crinkled. “Good thing I was, or we’d both have gone down.”
With a quick look, Senna registered the slash of his dark brows, high cheekbones, and long, black hair pulled back along his neck. Another Native American. Strong features balanced by an open smile. Why did she have the sudden urge to sway forward against his broad chest? A chest that appeared capable enough to harbor a woman tied in nervous knots over today’s exhibit.
Spirit of Life, she was late.
“Again, I’m sorry.” She stepped back, away from his broad hands and fought against acknowledging the immediate loss of warmth. No time for distractions, even tall, dark, and sexy ones. “I’ve got to get to my booth.”
With a dip of his chin, he swept a hand in the direction she headed. “The right-of-way is yours.”
Senna hustled down the side aisle but couldn’t resist a quick backward glance over her shoulder. The tall stranger dressed all in black had disappeared into the crowd. As well he should have. Probably on his way to meet up with his family. She shook her head at the absurdity of any momentary connection they’d made.
The path she walked was along aisles lined with colorful banners and vivid photographs of amazing tattoos. The names and logos of shops she’d only read about—Dragon Ink, Artist’s Well, and St. Ink—sped by in a multi-colored blur. Her blood raced in acknowledgement of the sheer amount of talent under this roof.
Ten years earlier, when she’d left the Wyoming reservation to accept her college scholarship, she’d only dreamed of making a living by creating body art. Now, being a finalist for a national residency grant was pure icing on the cake.
At the last row of booths, Senna turned the corner and stopped. Over the heads of the waiting crowd, she could barely read the banner of her Kaleidoscope booth midway down the aisle. Earlier that morning, she’d reviewed the list of appointments but still couldn’t believe this many people waited to receive her signature tat—a whirlwind. Tornado spirals of varying sizes and colors.
Excitement buzzing through her body, Senna hesitated. The sight of a crowd always brought back memories of her first rock concert and the crush of bodies tight together. The feeling of being pulled along without enough control.
A shudder ran through her. She was so much better one on one, relating to another individual through her tattoo artistry. A hobby that quickly became an obsession once she learned the depth of emotional connection she gained.
Squaring her shoulders, she ducked her head, murmured “Excuse me,” and edged her way through the waiting people. Within a few steps, she overheard whispers of, “Is that her?” and “She’s so young.”
A printed list lay on the table, and Senna grabbed a pen, inhaling a breath to center her thoughts.
I am strong. I am powerful. I create art. Happiness is mine.
She looked up at the first person in line, connected her gaze with shining brown eyes, and smiled. “Name, please?”
The short woman with large, gold hoop earrings leaned close. “Adelita Ramos. This is my first time, and I’m a bit nervous.”
“You’re checked in for a nine thirty appointment.” Senna rested a gentle hand on the woman’s wrist, hoping to reassure her. “Don’t worry. We’ll chat a bit first, and I won’t start inking until you’re ready.”
Within minutes, Senna verified the morning appointments were all checked in and advised them when to return. She turned toward the privacy curtain to arrange her implements, and the tall figure of a dark-haired man at the edge of the crowd caught her eye. The man from the entrance. He hung back, head turned sideways, and his attention focused down the aisle of booths.
A proud nose balanced a strong chin and shiny dark hair pulled back at his nape. Every line of his well-muscled body hinted at the fact he’d been watching her activities until just a few seconds ago. Her breath lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t tear away her gaze.
Black boots, jeans, and a T-shirt with a leather vest. Only the silver of an oval belt buckle and his tanned arms contrasted with his monotone wardrobe. As if he’d dressed to be unobtrusive.
Well, buddy, you failed.
Her body hummed in sexy awareness of the prime Native specimen.
Hours later, Senna murmured a farewell to the last client, rolled back her shoulders, and stood, suppressing a groan at stiff leg muscles. She closed up her kit and set aside her implements to be autoclaved later. Several times while working, she’d summoned the image of the tall proud man in black and ran over in her mind places they might have met. The more she thought of him, the more intrigued she became.
Stepping from behind the curtain, Senna glanced around the booth, secretly hoping to catch sight of him again. Maybe he waited for another chance to accidentally run into each other. A physical collision. The sounds of the convention center—an announcement on the loudspeaker, laughter, a crying child, vendors selling their wares—registered anew on her ears. When she worked, she blotted out everything in her immediate surroundings but the art being created.
Past her, people strolled along the aisle. Across the way, a thin man rearranged his body ornaments on a display board.
No mysterious stranger in black.
Finished with her appointments, Senna checked to make sure a supply of business cards remained on the table and strode into the crowd. Enjoying how the movement worked out the kinks in her legs, Senna walked to the end of the row, intending to stroll up and down each aisle. Pure research. Always a smart move to check on the work of other tattoo artists.
At the last booth, prickles of awareness ran up her neck and she stilled, pretending interest in the leather goods. When she turned to the left, she scanned the nearby booths, searching for what caused this itch of being watched.
Nothing.
The banner over the top of the booth at the end depicted a lance, a shield, and a buffalo. The classic symbols piqued her interest. She hadn’t heard another native artist was in attendance.
Stepping closer, she studied the tattoo pictures displayed on the booth. The artistry was stark but dynamic, and her heart beat faster. A windswept feather, bending prairie grass, a craggy mountainside. With just a few strokes, the artist had captured the sense of outsider her people often felt.
The sensation of being in touch with her Arapaho ancestry tightened her chest. She regretted drifting apart from her family who’d remained in the small Wyoming village where she’d been raised. None had understood her thirst for adventure and her need to learn about the world outside the reservation.
Her gaze stopped on a particular feather. A small version could be blended into the braid tat around her ankle. Maybe she’d return here tomorrow and have the work done. As she turned, a dark shadow disappeared around the corner. Unsure of what she’d seen, she blinked and looked again but found nothing.
For a few more minutes, she meandered through the exhibition hall, but so wild was the itch of being observed, she barely focused on what the other vendors offered. Without a clue of the reason, Senna returned to her booth, ready to close up for the day.
While stacking the brochures, she heard the scuff of approaching footsteps. She pasted on a smile, ready to face whatever question the potential client had. Raising her gaze, she looked straight into the coal black eyes of the tall stranger.
Heat flashed between them, dancing in an arc like a lightning bolt in a summer storm. Her insides sizzled with pure, elemental lust, and desire quivered low in her belly. “Any particular reason you’re following me?”
His eyebrows lowered, and he crossed thick arms over his broad chest. “Not following. Observing.”
She resisted gaping at his corded muscles at play when he moved. The man held himself like a wild animal on the prowl. “When you observe from more than one location, I call that following.”
He shrugged, a sexy glint lit in his dark eyes as his gaze roved her figure. “A better quarry would be hard to find.”
Oooh, a smooth talker. She straightened and jammed her thumbs into her front belt loops. Life, through the regretful experience of Billy ThunderCloud, had taught her to stay clear of charmers like him. “Was there a question I can answer? Mr…?”
“Call me Chev.” The corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Chev. Unusual name. Did you have a question?” Before she could stop herself, a flirty smile creased her lips. “Maybe something about my work?”
“Maybe.” His assessing gaze held hers for a beat longer then his stance relaxed and he stepped to the table. For several moments, he flipped through the album containing photos of tattoos she’d created. Each movement of his hand caused a wristband of silver carved with intricate designs to catch the light.
Unable to pull her gaze from the movements of his toned arm, she watched his fingers trace several designs on the page. Her mind strayed to thoughts of his caressing fingers outlining the tattoos on her skin and the heated sensations his touch might create. She shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against the confines of her bra.
His gaze connected with hers, and a black eyebrow angled in question. “You okay?”
Honestly, she wasn’t sure. With lips pressed tight against a more revealing answer, she could only nod. Why was she reacting to a stranger in this carnal way? Probably because she’d been so focused on building her business that her last date occurred more than six months ago.
She tilted her head and grinned. “I’m fine. So, Chev—” she jerked her chin toward the photo album “—see anything you like?”
His hand stilled, and he cut her a sideways look, his gaze sweeping across her breasts then trailing over her face. “That I do.”
A flash of warning rippled through her, but she ignored the tip. His sexual innuendo was a power move, and she refused to be intimidated. “Which is your favorite?”
For an instant, his eyes widened, then a corner of his mouth curled. “I won’t know until I’ve tried them both.”
She gasped, and her traitorous body reacted to his blatant come-on. The almost-black eyes that smoldered as his gaze raked her body heated her blood. But she didn’t care. A woman needed this in her life. Her nipples drew into tight buds, and she pressed her thighs together against the tingling that pulsed in her core.