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An Excerpt From: SEASONAL WINDS ANTHOLOGY:
A Seasonal Wind
 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2007.
All Rights Reserved, New Concepts Publishing
He was prime beef and every woman whose hungry eyes were following him as he stalked through the room damned well knew it. Broad shoulders stretched a sweat dampened blue chambray shirt left unbuttoned halfway down to reveal a chest covered in curly dark hair. Long shirt sleeves had been rolled carelessly up to the elbows to display thick forearms that tapered to very capable looking hands with long, slender fingers. A hard, upturned ass that seemed to be begging to be cupped shifted spectacularly beneath tight faded jeans that pulled across muscular thighs, his silver Concho belt buckle shifting back and forth as he strode. Amber eyes flashed hot as lightning one moment then glacial cold the next in a face that was knock-dead gorgeous with sensual full lips, a finely chiseled nose, and one helluva strong chin with a deep, sexy cleft. Add thick brown hair worn unfashionably long beneath a black Stetson with silver conchos and a silver hoop in a perfectly formed left ear and you had the recipe for one fine piece of mouthwatering eye candy. There wasn't a single diabetic among the women watching him strut his stuff and only one among them who didn't want a taste of his special kind of sweetness.
"Uh, oh," Beverly Shannon whispered to the woman sitting across from her. "He looks meaner than a junk yard dog today."
"Who?" the other woman inquired as she speared a shrimp.
"You know who," Beverly whispered.
Storm Landers glanced up from her shrimp cocktail and frowned when she saw who was bearing down on her. "Ah, shit," she hissed. "Who told him I was here?"
Stopping beside Storm's chair, the Adonis in jeans slapped a document down on her table—his tanned flesh in sharp contrast to the white linen tablecloth as he leaned toward her. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.
"You suddenly lose the ability to read, Wyndan?" Storm asked, lifting her head to give her unwanted visitor a disdainful look.
Wynd Landers narrowed his eyes to thin slits, a muscle working in his lean jaw. His fingers flexed on the paper as he snatched it up to crumple it. Coming to his full six foot two inch height, he tore the document down the middle before tearing it twice more, finally contemptuously tossing the pieces on the table.
"That's what I think of your goddamned divorce papers, Storm," he growled. "I have no intention of signing them."
Storm shrugged. "It doesn't matter whether you do or not. If I need to make a trip down to the Dominican Republic, I will." She locked stares with him. "I'm sure Drake will be happy to fly me there."
A collective gasp shot through the room and every ear became primed to hear what Wynd Landers' response to his wife's challenge would be. Breaths were held, waiting for the explosion.
With a hiss of unsuppressed fury, Wynd grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it. China, crystal, and silverware went flying, crashing to the floor, scattering food and spilling wine, causing shrieks that filtered like wildfire through those assembled. Eyes wide, mouths open, the diners scrambled away from the mess, linen napkins held before them like shields.
Storm sat where she was, flicked a casual glance over the destruction her husband had wrought in the dining room of the country club then gave him a nasty smile. "Oh that was so mature," she said, "and so predictable."
"Fuck you, Storm," he growled before turning and striding off, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
Those who got a good look at Wynd Landers' stony face as he shoved his way out of the Bellington Country Club would later swear the devil had taken possession of the man and the fires of hell were burning in his golden glare. Even Clarence, the elderly doorman whom everyone loved and tipped handsomely at Christmastime, would say the young man actually snarled at him on the way out and no one was ever rude to dear sweet Clarence.
Dirt crunching under his boot heels, Wynd stalked from the entrance of the country club to the parking lot like a feral beast, his shoulders hunched, his lips skinned back from his teeth. Jerking his truck door open, he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could, rocking the pickup on its base. He sat there with his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and fought the tears he refused to allow to fall. Straining to keep that weak, unmanly emotion at bay, he snatched his hands from the wheel, curled his fingers inward, and pounded the base of his palms brutally on the wheel, grunting like a wounded animal with every hit, wishing it was Drake Kimberly's smirking face he was striking.
"You are way out of her league, Landers," Drake had told him with a sneer. "Once the novelty wears off, she'll come to her senses and realize what a terrible mistake she made in marrying you."
The mistake—Wynd thought as he stared blindly through the dusty, streaked windshield—was his, not hers. He'd known better than to go after something he was never meant to possess but like a fool, he'd let his ego dictate to his brain. As a result, pride had gotten in the way of common sense simply because Storm Riley had smiled at him and he had dared to dream.
Now the dream had become a nightmare. The sweet taste of passion had turned to ashes lodged in his throat. He had learned the hard way that boys from the wrong side of the tracks rarely kept the uptown girl even when lucky enough to win her hand.
"You're a goddamn fool, Landers," he said and reached down to turn the key in the ignition. Putting the truck in reverse, he slung his arm over the back of the seat and twisted around to look out the sliding rear window before gunning the engine and tearing out of the parking spot. Tires squealing, he peeled out of the parking lot, not giving a damn if he hit something on the way.
From the dining room window Storm watched the man she'd been married to for the last three years cut right in front of a delivery van and she sucked in a worried breath that Wynd would get t-boned by the larger vehicle. A shrill blast of the van's horn accompanied by a shriek of braking tires caused her to tense and come half-way out of her chair before she saw Wynd's rigid middle finger jammed out the window in answer. She snorted at his juvenile display of temper. Once more her soon-to-be ex-husband had scraped by without even slowing down his reckless speed.
"Winning friends and influencing enemies, as usual," Beverly commented dryly as their table was righted and fresh linen spread over it.
"One day he isn't going to be quite so lucky," Storm said on a long sigh. She adjusted the folds of her ankle length denim broomstick skirt and dusted away a piece of lettuce that clung to the fabric. "He's an accident waiting to happen."
"You were warned, my friend," Beverly said and took a sip of the complimentary Bloody Maria the hostess had offered while their table was re-set and fresh food brought.
"Yeah, I know," Storm agreed. She fiddled with the new silverware. "I just wish I'd listened."
"You were thinking with something other than your noggin'," Beverly reminded her. She shrugged. "To give the boy his due, he was prime beef back then."
"Still is," Storm said. "That's part of the problem."
"And always will be, sweetie," Beverly stated. "No man should look that good and no woman can keep her hands off him when he does. Him straying had to happen sooner or later. A man like Wynd Landers can't be good no matter how hard he tries. It's in his genes."
Storm sat back as the waitress arrived. "The trouble was it didn't stay in his jeans," she mumbled and heard the waitress snicker. Glancing up at the girl, she gave the bleached blonde a derisive look. The girl returned the look with a raised brow then flounced away, her shapely butt gyrating.
"Bitch," Storm said beneath her breath.
"Not his type," Beverly said with a grunt. "He could do better even on a bad day."
"Why is it every woman in town wants me to think she'd been laid by my husband?" Storm asked as she dove into her hot pastrami on rye. She chewed savagely as she swept the room with her angry eyes. Women were surreptitiously glancing her way and whispering to one another.
"Wishful thinking," Beverly replied. "He wouldn't give most of them the time of day."
Keenly feeling the weight of the gossipy eyes boring into her, Storm flexed her slim shoulders within the confines of the gauze peasant blouse she wore. With elasticized ruffles at the neck and short sleeves, the blouse left her bare along her shoulders and upper arms and she could feel the heat of embarrassment tinting flesh. She shifted again, squirming in her chair then let out a low, inaudible curse.
"I hate this," Storm said and pushed her chair back. Tossing her napkin to the table she snatched her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and strode off, ignoring the looks and whispers that followed in her wake.
Hating the women of the country club, furious with Wynd for having caused a scene that would further fuel the gossip about them, she headed for her convertible and once there, peeled out of the parking lot with as much recklessness as had her husband.
"Arrogant son of a bitch," she called him as she reached down and turned on the radio, cranking up the volume as the wind whipped her shoulder length brown hair into wild tangle around her head.
Glancing down at her watch, she knew damned well where he would be right then and when the road to the creek came into sight, she jerked on the wheel and the little sports car fishtailed into the turn, its rear wheels spraying gravel.
Wynd heard the approaching engine and snorted. Lifting the long neck to his lips, he took a deep sip of the beer—was taking another—when he heard the skid of tires on the dirt then the angry slam of her car door.
"You are a prick, Wynd Landers!" she shouted as she stomped over to where he was lounging on the creek bank, his shirt off, hat hanging on a branch, feet bare.
"And you're a cunt, Storm Landers," he answered her insult. "Guess that means we were made for one another."
She came to stand over him with her hands on her hips. It made her even angrier to note the lazy way he reclined there with one knee crooked, his buff body braced on an elbow, beer bottle in hand. "Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was at the club?"
He tilted his head back and looked up at her, squinting in the sun. "Do you think I give a shit how embarrassed you were at the club, baby cakes? Those uptight rich bitches can kiss this white trash bastard's ass."
Storm snorted. "I imagine most of them have at one time or another."
His eyes narrowed dangerously, Wynd shot her a hateful look. "Well, somebody's gotta kiss it since you've been slobbering all over Drake Kimberly's flaccid rump."
She drew back her foot—intending to kick him in the ribs—but he tossed the beer away to snake out his hand. She shrieked, her mouth open in shock as he caught her foot lightning fast and jerked, causing her to tumble backwards to the ground. She fell hard with the wind knocked out of her but before she could scramble away, he was up and over her, his hard as nails body pressing hers down into the soft grass, his long legs between hers, his knees pushing hers wide.
"Uh, unh, baby," he said, his low voice a predatory growl. "You've kicked me while I was down for the last damned time."
Storm tried to push him off her but that was futile. He was lying on her skirt and that effectively trapped her legs. He was over two hundred pounds of prime, muscled male—enraged male at that—and she had invaded his territory. She knew he considered her fair game.
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