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  CHAINING CHEYENNE

  By

  REESE GABRIEL

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 978-1-60089-109-0

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2007 Reese Gabriel

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  [email protected]

  A Sizzler/B&D Edition

  Chapter One

  Mad Dog tried to claim Cheyenne at the cemetery right after Frankie's funeral. The rest of the gang watched as they re-mounted their gleaming choppers.

  "I'm leader of the Vipers now,” he growled, seizing her long, dark hair in his beefy fist. “Everything Frankie owned is mine, including you."

  Cheyenne didn't waste her energy squirming. She had been expecting a move from Mad Dog, though she had hoped there would be time enough to get away later tonight when everybody was good and drunk.

  "I wasn't Frankie's property,” Cheyenne hissed defiantly as he pulled her against his hard, leather clad body. “And I'm sure as hell not yours."

  Mad Dog laughed, low and mean. She could smell the whisky on his breath. Cheyenne had tried to warn Frankie about the man. He was no good, disloyal and selfish. She half suspected him of collaborating with the Hell Raisers, Frankie's killers.

  "You're lucky we're out in public,” he told her. “Or I would teach you a lesson."

  "You will be the one to learn the lesson,” Cheyenne retorted. “You're no leader. You won't last, you're going down, I promise."

  Mad Dog's beady eyes gleamed. His ugly forehead crinkled. Predictably, he snapped into violence mode, cocking his arm to strike her. “The only one going down is you, bitch!"

  Cheyenne closed her eyes bracing herself. Better to be hit than lose her self respect.

  Incredibly, the punch never came. A man had appeared behind them, his voice freezing Mad Dog in mid swing.

  "If I were you, friend,” the stranger drawled, eerily calm, “I would think very carefully about my next move."

  "What the hell?” Mad Dog let go of Cheyenne and whirled about, visibly shocked that anyone would dare approach him like this.

  Cheyenne drew a ragged breath. The stranger was gorgeous, his six foot tall, muscular body poured into a black tee shirt and jeans. He wore boots, combat style, not motorcycle. His hair was as dark as hers, though it was shorn like a newly recruited marine. He had the face of a model. His nose was perfectly proportioned, he had a solid chin and totally killer blue eyes.

  The kind of eyes a woman could lose herself in. The kind other men knew better than to mess with. But this was Mad Dog they were dealing with, backed by ten of his henchmen.

  "Good boy,” the stranger praised Mad Dog's initial response. “Now how about if you and the rest of your degenerate playmates run along before something nasty happens?"

  Mad Dog bared his teeth. “Either you're looking to commit suicide or you're the stupidest mother fucker on Earth. You get any idea who we are, friend?"

  The stranger stood with his hands at his side, seemingly indifferent, hough Cheyenne had a feeling he was ready for anything. “You are members of a criminal organization known as the Vipers,” the man said, as though recounting the exploits of a stamp club. “You have rap sheets as long as my arm and at present you are being hunted down by an even worse gang, which, from the looks of you, is going to win."

  Mad Dog pointed a stubby finger. “You think I won't kill you just because there might be witnesses?"

  "No,” the man replied without skipping a beat. “I think you won't kill me because you're not good enough."

  That was all Mad Dog needed to hear. Letting out a blood curdling roar, not caring that a priest and several members of the cemetery staff stood within earshot at Frankie's grave, Mad Dog charged like a wild bull.

  Cheyenne was pretty sure he was going to regret such an unplanned attack, and sure enough, he might as well have taken on a brick wall. It was all over in a heartbeat. The handsome stranger coolly stepped aside and grabbed hold of Mad Dog from behind, pulling his arm up behind his back.

  There was a sickening crack and Mad Dog fell to his knees, screaming.

  "Who's next?” the man asked.

  Two of the gang members came at him once. They had knives.

  The stranger had them both down on the ground, one with a broken wrist, the other with the wind knocked out of him.

  "This is just the warm up,” said the stranger to the rest. “We can get to the main event or call it a day, your call."

  The others looked at each other, frowning.

  "Screw this,” said Medicine Man, the scraggly haired third in command. “The little bitch ain't worth it."

  The Vipers scrambled to mount up, the healthy ones helping the wounded. Without so much as a goodbye to the woman who had lived with them as their leader's girlfriend for over a year, they took off, spewing gray fumes into the crisp, morning air.

  Just like that, it was the two of them.

  "I guess I owe you my thanks,” Cheyenne said, trying to decide what if anything the stranger might want in return for his act of gallantry.

  Silent as a ghost, the stranger moved in on her.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

  He took hold of her wrist, spinning her about. The handcuffs were cold and unyielding. He wasted no time securing Cheyenne's hands behind her back.

  "Who are you?” Cheyenne demanded as he pulled her by the arm towards a waiting SUV, black and military looking, just like him. “Some kind of cop?"

  He opened the passenger door and helped her inside. The squirming she had put off earlier happened now as the man leaned in close to buckle her seat belt. She could smell pine and musk, fresh after shave and the scent of testosterone. His beefy shoulder brushed her arm. Damn, this guy was hot, uber hot, the most stunning example of alpha male she had ever run across.

  And he had her helpless, in bondage, for heaven's sake. What if he were to decide to turn the whole thing sexual, putting his lips on hers, his hands on her defenseless breasts under the tank top and open leather jacket-no bra, nipples turgid?

  "I'm not a cop,” he said. “Your father hired me."

  Oh, fuck. Cheyenne's world dropped from underneath her as he shut the door, metal on metal. Why couldn't it have been the police?

  Even Mad Dog wasn't looking so bad now.

  Cheyenne watched the textbook male specimen climb in behind the wheel. His meaty thighs pressed the seat, drawing the material tight across his crotch. He was packing heat in those tight jeans and she didn't mean a gun. Was it her imagination or was he getting a hard on?

  Licking her lips she made a fateful decision.

  It was likely the only way to get out of this predicament and, hell, it had its fringe benefits.

  "Whoever you are, really,” she said, steeling herself. “I don't care. But if you agree to let me go ... I'll have sex with you."

  * * * *

  Reed Tanner clenched his teeth, forcing himself not to react to the sultry proposition. Indeed, there was nothing more in the world he wanted right now than sex with his lovely passenger.

  Scratch that, Reed wanted to possess her com
pletely, putting her incredible body to their mutual pleasure, marking her in the process, branding her like no other man ever had. He knew her type. The spoiled daddy's girl turned hell raiser, biting every hand that tried to feed her when all she really wanted was a man strong enough to tame her.

  "Didn't you hear me?” she said at last. “I made you an offer."

  The impatience in her voice, the implied arrogance heated his blood all the more. She was a spitfire, all right. For all her time spent in the company of supposed bad boys, however, he doubted she had ever felt the touch of a real man.

  "I heard you just fine,” he said, driving the custom SUV past the cemetery exit. It was a loaner, from an old friend still with the FSA, the Federal Security Agency. It had a few extras which might come in handy, including bulletproof tinted glass and a built in machine gun. “Sex isn't an option, that's all."

  He felt her eyes on him, hot, green, and indignant. As the only child of Rutherford Miles Stanley, owner of three television networks, a pro ball team and a hundred or so newspapers, she was not used to getting no for an answer.

  "Don't tell me you're gay,” she said.

  Reed clutched the wheel. With a woman like Cheyenne he wondered if any man could be gay. Barely five foot four, she was all curves, her soft body and silky raven's hair built for a man's hands. And that face. She could be an angel if she cleaned up her act. Although he had to admit, the demonic act with those piercing green eyes and slicing cheek bones had its appeal, too.

  Oh, yeah, he wanted her ... more than he had wanted a woman in a very long time. But sex was not on the agenda, not by a long shot.

  "How about if we just drop the subject, shall we, Cheyenne?"

  "Sure, why not,” she dripped sarcasm. If eyes could dispense daggers, Reed would have been cut to ribbons. “There are so many other things to talk about. Like what the fuck you think you are doing holding me against my will? You do know this is kidnapping, right?"

  "Technically, yes,” he conceded. “But there are extenuating circumstances."

  Cheyenne snorted. “Yeah, right. This is so like my father. I've just lost the man I love and he has to go and humiliate me, hiring some goon to drag me off from the only people that care about me."

  Reed wasn't sure where to start, there were so many absurdities in her statement. To his knowledge Cheyenne's association with Frank Korwin and the rest of the Vipers had been a cynical attempt to humiliate her father for supposed wrongs in her upbringing.

  Then again, Reed had only heard her father's side of things.

  "For people who supposedly care about you that much, the Vipers didn't shed many tears over you,” Reed observed.

  "How could they?” she snapped. “They were too busy trying not to get killed by you."

  "I had no intention of killing anyone."

  If Reed had, they would have been dead, all eleven of them. It wasn't bragging, just a statement of fact. Reed had been well trained and he was experienced, too, his mettle forged in the fire of a hundred operations, many of them deep in hostile territory.

  Cheyenne shook her hair over her shoulder proudly and raised her nose in the air. His mouth watered at the brief flash of white skin, her neck, her ear lobe. She looked good in those handcuffs, damn good.

  Maybe this assignment was a mistake. Reed was an aficionado of bondage and he liked willing women in captivity. He had to remember this was life and death, though, not a romp in the hay. This female, desirable, vulnerable and sexy, was in grave danger.

  And it was up to him to save her.

  If only Cheyenne knew what lay ahead for them both. A week, maybe a whole lot longer confined in a small cabin, just the two of them.

  She wasn't the only one with an ordeal ahead.

  Would Reed be able to keep his hands off her and on his work?

  Theoretically, the answer was yes. Reed had encountered beautiful, off limits women before.

  The thing of it was Cheyenne was different. She was already managing to get around his defenses, making him feel things a professional should not.

  And there was another thing, too, potentially the biggest danger of all.

  Because unless he had missed his guess something had sparked in her eyes when he had belted her, handcuffed into the seat.

  Cheyenne wasn't just gorgeous, she was submissive.

  Did she know it herself?

  He hoped not. For both their sakes.

  * * * *

  Cheyenne tried desperately to wrap her head around the reality of her circumstances, the speeding vehicle, the cuffs, the man taking her god knows where.

  Her pulse had raced at her captor's mention of killing. The way he spoke made her think he was experienced. What was his background? He didn't strike her as an ex-cop, or a mob guy. A mercenary, maybe?

  One thing was for sure. Whoever he was, knowing her father, he had to be the best.

  "It doesn't matter what you intended,” she answered him, determined to keep the upper hand in the conversation. “Kidnapping is kidnapping."

  She seemed to touch a nerve.

  "Would you rather I had left you back there with those animals?” he challenged, flashing a quick glance in her direction. “If I hadn't come along you would be well on your way to sex slavery by now."

  Her insides melted as the words poured from his strong lips. Sex slavery. Cheyenne had her secret fantasies, dreams of being kept nude or in rags, chained and available for the pleasure of strong Masters, men who would use her body as they willed, demanding obedience, punishing her for disobedience. Did he know? Had he guessed somehow?

  "The gang isn't all bad,” Cheyenne declared, recalling the times the Vipers had helped out vets down on their luck and dropped off bundles of food for the hungry. “A lot of them are good guys. They just live differently. A few are bad apples, like Mad Dog, but Frank kept things in line. He took care of me. We understood each other."

  Cheyenne recalled that first night, when she had met him at the Rose and Thunder, a biker bar with beer soaked wooden floors and walls dented from numerous fights. She had gone there with a couple of girlfriends on a dare. Frank came out of the wood work, saving them from a brutish looking group of pool players.

  It was lust at first sight. Cheyenne's friends had headed back to their apartment but Cheyenne stayed the night with Frank, his lean, almost hairless body entrancing her hour after hour. Such a lover, he had driven her out of her mind as he took her in every conceivable way.

  When he had suggested tying her to the bed, Cheyenne thought she had died and gone to heaven.

  "Some women like this,” he had rasped, running the silken cords along her supple flesh as she lay supine. “Have you ever tried it?"

  "No, but I want to,” she blessed his intentions with a moan. “I need it, please, Frankie, make me helpless."

  Frankie had chuckled at her eagerness as she crossed her wrists overhead. He secured them to the brass head board and had his way with her. She had arched at the back, lightning running up and down her spine as he took full liberties, pinching, nibbling her nipples and parting her thighs.

  Frankie had reveled in the power. “You gonna be a good girl,” he had said, pushing his throbbing cock against her thigh, “or do I have to tie open your legs, too?"

  "Tie them,” she had gasped, though she was hardly capable of resisting.

  As if she would have resisted even if she could.

  Reed's lips pressed together now in response to Cheyenne's statement. He appeared thoughtful. “I'm sorry for your loss,” he said at last.

  The sudden show of decency caught her off guard. “These cuffs are hurting me,” she said, avoiding the urge to thank him. “Any chance you can take them off or are you afraid I'll overpower you?"

  "I'm a lot more concerned you'll try to jump out and hurt yourself,” he said.

  "I could jump out with the cuffs on,” she pointed out, though she had no intention of making such a foolish move, especially now that they were picking up speed, head
ing out of the city.

  Where was he taking her, anyway? Her family's estate was south, not north. Was Daddy waiting for her in some secret location, some new fortress in the mountains?

  He shook his head. “You're not that suicidal."

  "But I hang around with dangerous criminal gangs, right? That makes me at least partially suicidal."

  "If you say so."

  "Daddy says so."

  "Maybe you should get some sleep,” he said. “We have a long trip ahead."

  "You expect me to sleep through my own abduction? You're even more deluded than I thought."

  "Just keep quiet then,” he said. “At least close your eyes."

  The commanding gentleness in his voice made her want to obey.

  She revolted instead. “How about if I scream, instead, what do you say to that?"

  "I could gag you."

  "I bet you'd like that,” she shot back.

  His lips moved slightly. One brow arched, just a tiny bit. Something hot moved through her, making her weak and far too needy for her own good. “You would like that,” she accused. “You're some kind of sex fiend, aren't you?"

  He failed to take the bait. “Let's leave it at my being gay, shall we?” he said dryly.

  Cheyenne turned her head away, snorting.

  It bothered her that she wasn't missing Frank all that much.

  Was she in shock still from the shooting or had she been less in love than she thought? Frank served her own ends, it was true. Sending that picture of the two of them to Daddy's office must have given him a coronary. Sometimes she wondered if they were all that different, father and daughter. Charismatic, manipulative...

  If only he understood that she could never settle into his mold. The imprisonment of all that money, the demands and expectations, the sins resting on his shoulders from all that power.

  Presently, she turned to face him again. His profile put her at ease, so noble, so damn confident. Things would be all right with a man like this around, they had to be.

  "I don't even know your name."

  "You don't need to."

  "I want to."

  "We don't all get what we want in life,” he said pointedly.