Free Angel at Dawn by Emma Holly

She often did when she worked Miss Wei’s eccentric schedule; the shift in hours did something to her brain. Of the two dreams that she remembered, one was about ripe red raspberries, which she’d been crushing against her body but not eating. In the other, someone she knew repeated, “The river’s flowing. Why aren’t you jumping in?”
    The voice had been so clear, so distinctive, that it seemed to echo through her guesthouse bedroom after her eyes opened. The clock on her bedside table said it was two thirty that afternoon, barely time to shower and dress and do all she had to before she drove back to the Chateau.
    Whenever possible, she liked to be five minutes early for appointments.
    Her body didn’t want to cooperate with her preference. She felt slow and dreamy as she washed up and got ready. Were those her green eyes in the bathroom mirror, so slumberous and sensual? She was used to looking bright and eager, to feeling businesslike and prepared. She couldn’t bear to put on the sensible trousers she’d laid out for herself last night. A pale pink dress she rarely wore called to her. A band of cashmere trimmed its low neckline and cinch belt, practically inviting caresses where she was most female. Though acceptable for a cocktail party, the dress was unsuitable day wear.
    She put in on anyway, frowning at her reflection as she settled the belling skirt over petticoats.
    If she’d wanted to wear a dress, she should have chosen her fake Chanel. Its long knee-restricting skirt sent exactly the message this afternoon required.
    “Too late,” she told herself as she grabbed her keys.
    In the car, the new singer Elvis Presley was all over the radio, crooning for some bobby-soxer to love him tenderly. After futilely switching stations, Grace snapped the music off. She didn’t mind the song; she just didn’t need to be thinking about loving someone herself.
    Elvis’s hair was all right, though. Maybe minus some of the grease. She’d mention him as a possible model to the stylist. A duck’s ass cut seemed like it would suit Christian. If the girls flipped half as hard over him as they did for Elvis the Pelvis, their whole production would be in clover.
    Grace pulled up at her destination without remembering how she’d got there.
    Christian’s bungalow appeared unkempt by daylight. The evergreens overgrew the windows like movie monsters trying to get in. She made a mental note to call the hotel management again. This time she’d be sterner. Miss Wei’s guests, for whom she frequently leased this bungalow, deserved well-kept landscaping.
    As she lifted her hand to knock, Christian opened the front door. His long, thick-lashed eyes were sleepy, but that was no surprise. Grace wet her lips and tried not to picture them gazing at her from a pillow.
    “I’m ready,” he said grimly, settling his cowboy hat low on his forehead.
    Grace couldn’t help smiling. “It’s not a firing squad. Just a few additions to your wardrobe.”
    “And a haircut.”
    “Are you Samson? All your strength’s in your ponytail?”
    She reached around his neck to tug it, emboldened by the fact that he seemed to be enjoying her humor.
    She had no warning. One moment Christian was inside the door and she was out, and the next she was inside, too. He’d lifted her over the threshold, and now his front was pressed full length against her, backing her into the wall of the entryway. He bore into her as heavily as if he were on top of her on a bed. Her thighs couldn’t hold him off. He pushed his strong legs between them, bending his knees so that the thick length of his erection found the soft, hot ache of her sex.
    Grace gasped and struggled, but his hands had trapped her elbows where her dress’s sleeves left off. His fingers were hard as steel.
    “I’ll show you my strength,” he said.
    He rolled his pelvis against her like a stripper. The ungiving bulge of his cock managed to part her folds even through all the