Dance of the Rogue

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Dance of the Rogue

  ISBN 9781419923579

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Dance of the Rogue Copyright © 2009 Cris Anson

  Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book Publication September 2009

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Dance of the Rogue

  Cris Anson

  Acknowledgements

  Some of my readers know that the loss of my husband in November 2005 left me unable to work on Rolf’s story for several years. I owe this book to the following women who kicked my literary butt to get me started again:

  Maggie Shayne, for her NJRW workshop on coping, but more importantly, for her hugs and sympathy. Elsie Hogarth, cheerleader and beadwork-artist extraordinaire. Fellow Ellora’s Cave authors Robie Madison and Tara Nina. Hug buddies Shelley Freydont, Patricia Leary, Patt Mihailoff and Kathye Quick. And always, always, to my editor, Sue-Ellen Gower, whose spot-on suggestions brought this book up to snuff.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Boy Scout: Boy Scouts of America

  Central Casting: Disc Intellectual Properties, LLC

  Crock-Pot: Sunbeam Products, Inc.

  CSI: CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  Google: Google, Inc.

  Guinness: Arthur Guinness Son & Company Limited

  Hershey’s: Hershey Foods Corporation

  Lucite: Lucite International, Inc.

  Mustang: Ford Motor Company

  Nature Conservancy: Nature Conservancy, The

  Prius: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha AKA Toyota Motor Corporation

  Salvation Army: Salvation Army, The

  Walmart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.

  Chapter One

  “I need you to find my grandson.”

  Stunned into silence, Fantine Mercier stared at the woman she loved as fiercely as she did her own family. “Grandson?” she managed to squeak. “I didn’t know Uncle Randolph had been married.”

  At the mention of her long-dead son, Rosalie Dwyer—Nonie, to Fantine—blinked back a tear. “He wasn’t.”

  “Then how—” Fantine clamped down on the question. Of course she knew how. She’d had thirty-eight years to learn what kinds of pain men and women could and did inflict on each other, herself included.

  She veered in another direction. “Uncle Randolph’s been dead for over twenty-five years. How come you’re just looking for this grandson now?”

  Nonie’s eyes reflected her inner pain as she looked up at Fantine. “I just found out.”

  Fantine carefully set down her glass of iced tea on the doily protecting Nonie’s cherrywood end table. They were seated in a comfortable living room crammed with eighty-five years of Nonie’s memories. Nonie and Fantine’s own grandmother had been best friends all their lives, growing up next door to each other in a small central New Jersey town, and Fantine considered her “my other granny”. Likewise, Nonie looked on Fantine as her granddaughter.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I’ve been thinking of selling this house, moving into a smaller place, all on one floor, you know? My knees can’t take all those stairs anymore.”

  Fantine waited, took another sip of tea. The ice cubes clinked.

  “Anyway, I’ve been cleaning out the attic.”

  “Nonie! Why didn’t you ask me to help? You know I have summers off.”

  The older woman shrugged. “You usually go haring off in that, what do you call it, that home on wheels.”

  “Recreational vehicle.” She hadn’t made any travel plans for the summer because she’d seen how Nonie was slowing down, how she favored one leg when walking. If anything happened to Nonie while she was three thousand miles away, she’d never forgive herself.

  Fantine’s gaze sharpened. “Nonie, are you okay? Is there something you’re not telling me? Did you see a doctor recently?”

  “What? Oh. No, I’m fine. At least as fine as these old bones can be. I can still dabble in my garden or stroll around the block.”

  Fantine took her time scrutinizing the older woman. What she saw reassured her. Nonie’s gray eyes were bright and alert, and although her wrinkled skin sagged, the lack of color in her cheeks didn’t alarm. “Okay. Tell me how you found out.”

  “Well, like I said, it’s long past time to throw stuff out, or give it to the Salvation Army. I’ve been bringing down a box a day for a couple of weeks. Broken Christmas ornaments, baby clothes, sets of dishes, you can’t imagine everything that we saved. Yesterday I came across—” She faltered, reached for her tea. Fantine waited.

  After a few calming sips, Nonie set down her glass and continued. “I found the box of Randolph’s personal effects that they shipped back after he died. Back then I was so distraught I told my Michael, may his soul rest in peace, to hide it in the attic because I couldn’t deal with it. Every once in a while he’d remind me of it and I’d burst into tears. After a while he stopped reminding me, and I tucked it away in a far corner of my mind.”

  Fantine got up from the wing chair, sat down next to Nonie on the camelback sofa and put her arm around the older woman’s fragile shoulders. She could feel Nonie trembling. “Do you want me to bring the box down from the attic?”

  “No.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s on the dresser in my bedroom.”

  “Okay, you just sit here and I’ll bring it down and you can show me what—”

  “You don’t have to.” Nonie leaned over the chair and pulled open the drawer of the small table alongside the sofa. Her hands shook as she handed Fantine a pale blue envelope, yellowed at the edges. “Here.”

  Fantine accepted the envelope. In a rounded, feminine hand, it was addressed to Randolph Dwyer in care of a post office box in Fairbanks, Alaska. It was postmarked Doylestown, Pennsylvania, October 27, 1979.

  She turned it over. The return address said merely AHT.

  Delving inside the slit, she retrieved a single sheet of scalloped blue paper and read.

  My darling,

  It’s a boy! You should see him, Randolph, he’s so perfect, with long fingers and a turned-up nose. He has only the softest peach fuzz on his head, so maybe he’ll be blond, like me.

  Erik wanted to name him Haaken, after some ancestor, but I convinced him to accept another good Norse name. It’s as close to Randolph as I can come and still not have him suspect.

  Your son’s nam
e is Rolf.

  I can’t wait until your stint on the pipeline is finished and we can be together again.

  Be safe. I love you,

  Alana

  Fantine swallowed hard. Her Nonie had a grandson.

  She raised her green eyes to Rosalie’s. “I’ll find him, Nonie. You can count on it.”

  Chapter Two

  As if coached, all thirty-two women in the loft gasped when Rolf Thorvald dropped his black silk robe to reveal his finely honed, naked body.

  Well, almost naked, Rolf corrected silently. But…that little scrap of a G-string wouldn’t be hiding his Magnum for long, the way their eyes ate him up. The way they shifted their bodies, crossing long, bare legs to nudge miniskirts up even closer to their crotches. Or like the willowy blonde in the first row, bending forward to reach the drawing pencil she dropped and, not coincidentally, exposing a ripe tit to his view through the loose, low neckline.

  Standing on a dais set two feet off the floor, Rolf assumed the final pose. The one they invariably asked for, his muscular arms raised over his head, wrists crossed as though chained, fingers grasping the heavy steel ring the art gallery’s owner had installed in the ceiling for his comfort and balance. Head slightly back to simulate pain and helplessness, his thick black hair tickling his shoulders. Legs spread apart, chest out, abs sculpted, belly flat.

  Oh yeah, it was a painless way to pick up some spending money. Kat, the owner of A Discerning Eye Fine Arts Gallery in upscale Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Philadelphia Main Line, had struck gold with him as a model. These bored high-society women, of all ages and sizes, had willingly forked over a king’s ransom for a four-session course in drawing the human form, the last session of which offered a live model. His take for two hours work was a Jackson per head, twenty bucks times thirty-two women and he’d pocket a cool six-hundred-forty untraceable, tax-free cash money.

  Life was good. He had all the pussy he could handle and then some. Tonight it was a tossup between the blonde flaunting her tits or the brunette with the long legs sitting two chairs to her left. Or maybe the cookie in the second row with the Angelina Jolie lips, who fucked her artist’s brush with her mouth every time his glance landed on her from beneath his lowered lashes.

  Nah, tonight he felt like covering someone’s luscious ass over the hood of his Mustang and fucking her from behind, in both holes if he got lucky.

  And Rolf Thorvald always got lucky.

  Just thinking about it sent blood pooling to his Magnum. At the sight of his swelling cock, the electricity in the room crackled. Even though the air conditioner was on full tilt, it being July, a couple of the students wiped perspiration from their foreheads, and one fanned herself with a sheet of drawing paper. For some classes he stood totally naked and let himself swell under their longing gazes, but tonight he’d decided on the peekaboo route.

  It was working.

  There was something so…forbidden…in what he was doing. Giving these women wet dreams in public, making them rub their legs together to ease the itch, feeding their naughty fantasies. He could see the lust in their eyes, the stiffening of their nipples poking against skimpy tops. Kat had told him that after last month’s session, several of the women’s husbands had thanked her for whatever it was that their wives did at the live-model drawing class. Of course, he assumed the bold ones he humped in the parking lot after each session weren’t among the married. He did have scruples. Sort of.

  The purple mushroom that was the head of his cock popped totally out of the G-string, gaining strength and thickness as it grew. He wondered how long it would take for a drop of pre-cum to seep out.

  Hell, not longer than a New York minute and there it was, a pearly bead that instantly became the center of attention. He shifted his stance a bit—deliberately—which made his cock bob up and down. Idly he wondered how many of them were sketching a close-up rather than a full-body view.

  The music playing softly in the background changed to a brisk tempo, signaling to Rolf that this final half-hour pose was nearing its end. He caught Kat’s eye as she straightened up from commenting on a student’s effort, and gave her a slight nod.

  “Class, the half hour is almost up.”

  A chorus of groans greeted the announcement.

  “But the model has agreed to a few more minutes.”

  To a scattering of applause and murmurs, the boss lady moved to the rear of the loft and pushed a few buttons, reprogramming the CD to give these lucky ladies a bonus.

  After the ten-minute encore he’d bestowed on them, the music faded and died, his cue to exit stage left. Showman that he was, he released his grip on the iron ring and slowly, provocatively stretched the cramps from his arms and back before bending down to retrieve his robe. He flung it over his shoulders, tucked his arms in the sleeves and, with a slight bow to his rapt audience, left the dais.

  Skirting the edges of the three semicircular rows of artists and dilettantes, he belted the robe loosely while sauntering to the rear. He could feel their eyes caressing him, devouring him, storing up impressions for later, when they could use their fingers or their husbands or lovers to experience an orgasm with Rolf as its trip-hammer.

  He entered the small dressing area and took a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge that served as an end table. Unscrewing the top, he drank half the contents before setting it down and easing himself into the lounge chair.

  Did he have it made or what?

  Rolf knew that Kat would spend the next fifteen minutes giving the students individual critiques before the class ended, although it was filled to capacity tonight and she’d probably run over. A lazy smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. No way would Kat mind working a little overtime. Since she’d started these art classes, her gallery had become even more of a hot spot.

  Last year Kat had “discovered” an artist whose sensual paintings had layers upon layers of meaning, most of them dealing with aspects of sex, and had interested a number of New York collectors in her work. Currently, Kat was featuring his oldest brother’s wood sculptures. Magnus was the latest darling of the art world. He was also Kat’s new husband. While Magnus disapproved of Rolf’s streak of exhibitionism, he allowed as how his wife hadn’t the slightest interest in a “boy” of twenty-eight, so he ignored the whole thing.

  Downing the rest of his water, Rolf pushed himself off the soft leather chair, shucked the robe and G-string, and began to dress. His jeans went on commando-style—he never wore his briefs to this job, they’d just be in the way afterward—and then a snug-fitting black T-shirt that advertised Thor’s Hammer, his other brother Soren’s bar.

  With just over a year between them, Soren and Magnus were often mistaken for twins, with their Nordic-blond hair, glacier-blue eyes and Viking builds. Seven years separated Rolf from Soren, so he’d sometimes felt like an only child. He often wondered who in the family tree had bequeathed him his raven-black hair and brown eyes to look so different. He’d had his share of “It must have been the mailman” digs when he was growing up, and had learned early to fight dirty.

  And he’d paid back all the bullies by fucking their sisters and girlfriends.

  These days, though, it was all about the woman. Short or tall, slim or curvy, whatever their hair color, he loved them all, enjoyed making them all happy. No woman could resist him when he set his mind to seducing her. Soren—the quiet one—used to goad him with a “Bet you can’t…” and of course Rolf could and did. He no longer needed Soren to nudge him. His cock woke up at the mere scent of a ripe woman.

  The swell of conversation outside caught his attention. The women were packing up their canvases and sketch pads and charcoals. He’d give them another ten minutes to thin out then see who had hung around to accost him in the parking lot. He’d given several women the eye tonight, and their body language told him loud and clear that they were willing.

  Maybe he’d witness a cat fight over him.

  “That’d be fun,” he murmured. He’d col
lect his pay from Kat and then go out and collect another notch or two for his bedpost.

  “So many women, so little time.” He laughed at the cliché. But in his case, it was true. If it wasn’t his bad-boy stance that drew them, it was his irresistible charm. Women fell all over him, offered themselves to him. Who was he to disappoint them? He was more Alfie than Alfie, and better looking than either the Michael Caine or the Jude Law version.

  A subtle knock on the door told him Kat was ready to conduct business. He opened the door and she entered, shutting it behind her. Her flaming auburn hair was wrapped in a casual topknot. Her red capri pants emphasized long legs. A loose artist’s smock covered her outstanding ass. Oops, he shouldn’t think that way of his new sister-in-law.

  “Well, that was a first,” she said dryly, eyebrow arched as only Kat could do it.

  “Yeah, it looked like a sell-out crowd, huh?”

  Kat tsked and shook her head, as if chastising a schoolboy. “Don’t give me that innocent look. I’m talking about eau de Rolf. I don’t think I’m going to show Magnus any of their work.”

  Rolf shrugged. “He’s seen my pecker.”

  “I doubt he’s seen it quite that way before.”

  He gave her his almost perfected little-boy smile. “Keeps ’em coming to your shop, though.”

  “Yes, it does. Speaking of which.” She lifted her smock to access a fanny pack and pulled out a hefty envelope. “Here’s your pay for tonight. I could probably fill a second class if you wanted.”

  He accepted the envelope and stuffed it, unopened, into the back pocket of his jeans. “Nah, I wouldn’t want to be overexposed.”

  Kat threw back her head and laughed, as he’d meant her to, at the double entendre. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m also a helluva lot younger than that stuffy old man you married. Any time you get tired of Magnus, give me a holler. He’s over the hill. I’m just reaching my prime.”