Sweet Paradise [antikvár]

A REAL MAN "I thought you cowboys took what you wanted and asked permission later," she teased him. "Ladies aren't like strays. We can't rope 'em, wrestle 'em, and brand 'em." Finally, he smiled. "Though it might work out better if we could." Araby laughed softly. His expression was quick to change, and his voice took on an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Now I don't know how we cowboys measure up to those fancy dans back East, but I'll tell you this much. We don't go after something unless we really want it. . . ." Jake untied her sash and watched her robe open over her hips and legs. The pink folds of satin parted to reveal soft ivory curves and rises beneath. Blister-toughened hands eased inside, gently caressing her roundness. Then, becoming bolder, eager fingers began a delicious voyage into territories never before explored. . . . Araby Stone-Leigh sat quietly in the luxurious surroundings of the salon car, pretending to be engrossed in the latest sentimental novel. She had taken up the pose in the hope of discouraging a certain Mr. Cyril Sullivan from disturbing her. It was at the invitation of the Northern Pacific Railway executive that she was spending the last few hours of the journey in his private lounge. Much to his chagrin, however, she had deliberately assumed that the invitation extended to her friends as well, the six remaining passengers on the train. She turned a page, just for the sake of appearance, for she hadn't a clue as to what she'd spent the last hour reading. Her thoughts were busy elsewhere. Had she acted in haste leaving New York so suddenly? Perhaps it would have been better to wait a while before embarking on her trip west. Should she have left the city at all?