Mob Mistress

Justin Elk squinted in the darkness, his vision blurred, his temples throbbing. Blood pumped through his veins as thick and cumbersome as liquid lead. The last thing he remembered was stopping at a roadside diner for a cup of coffee and a club sandwich. he'd been headed to the Gulf of Mexico, to loll on the beach, to enjoy a muchneeded vacation. And then he'd awakened here. In an unfamiliar bed, stripped down to his jeans. His shirt and boots had been removed. His silverbuckled belt was gone, too. He shifted his weight and cursed the emasculating wooziness. he'd been drugged. He could feel the sluggish beat of his heart, the sleepinduced, headspinning intoxication. Someone must have spiked his coffee at the diner. Slipped him a Mickey or whatever it was called. he'd gotten groggy when he'd climbed back into his truck, but at the time he wasn't sure why. he'd been too tired to drive, so he'd sat behind the wheel, trying to combat the sudden fatigue. Which meant what? That they'd waited for him to conk out before they'd carted him off to... He gripped the side of the massive bed, doing his damnedest to pull himself up. His surroundings seemed grand, even in the vault of night. The sheets bunched beneath his fingers, the fabric soft and luxurious. Egyptian cotton, he thought. Probably four or five hundred bucks a pop. he'd never slept on anything this highdollar before, but he knew how expensive quality linens could be. His family owned and operated a guest ranch that pampered its cityslicker guests. He finally managed to sit upright and fumble for a lamp. With an unsteady grip, he illuminated the room. The light glared straight at him, making pinwheels twist and turn before his eyes. Fighting another wave of dizziness, he turned his head, catching glimpses of his glamorous gilded cage. Even though the furniture mutated in the druglaced fog, he noticed opulent antiques. A French door, which he assumed was securely locked, showcased what appeared to be a terrace, and a hallway led to what he assumed was the rest of the suite. He suspected this was a guest room in someone's house. Weren't kidnapping victims supposed to be bound and gagged and crammed into dark, dingy basements? Whoever did this wasn't holding him for ransom. They probably had more money, more power, more social standing than his family could ever have. He tried to drag himself out of bed, but before his feet hit the rippling floor, the whole damn room spun. Everything went by in a mindless blur. Shit. The sedative sluicing through his system was keeping him prisoner. He hoped that he didn't OD. He didn't want to croak in some rich man's castle. Then again, maybe the person who'd arranged his captivity was a woman. Yeah, right. A decadent heiress just dying to havehim, a Texasbred horseman, as her sex slave. A Hill Country cowboy who gave riding lessons and guided tours. Get real, he told himself. He hadn't been abducted because he looked good in a pair of Wranglers. The room wouldn't quit spinning, so he turned off the lamp, shutting out the pinwheels, the glaring little lights flashing like camera bulbs beneath his eyes. He spewed a string of profanities and fought to stay conscious. But he lost the battle and passed out again.When Justin came to, he sensed the presence of another person. Someone watching him. Angry, he forced himself to sit up. He didn't care how wasted he was. This time he was going to pound his way out of this mess. But as he reached for the lamp to expose his captor, a woman's voice came out of the night. "I unplugged it," she said. "I unplugged all of them." Justin cursed. He couldn't very well pound a nameless, faceless female. Her tone was barely audible, barely above a whisper. He wondered if his heiress theory wasn't as farfetWhitefeather, Sheri is the author of 'Mob Mistress ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373275397 and ISBN 0373275390.