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The moon bathed the ocean and the dilapidated carnival on the pier with its silvery glow and cast the forlorn woman in her long wedding gown in breathy, expectant shadows. Brett's guilt washed over him for the hundredth time since seeing his ex-wife step out of her fancy, expensive heels and, without giving them a backward glance, stroll dejectedly onto the beach, her shoulders slumped and her back hunched forward. He'd wondered for a year, five months, two days, and five and a half hours-”give or take a couple of minutes-”if he'd done the right thing in divorcing Sierra.
He was an eternal vampire and she was a mortal, although a devastatingly lovely mortal with sleek dark hair that swept her waist and an innocent, beguiling expression that lured jaded, hardened men from their complacency about the fair sex. And yet the man she now loved hadn't even bothered to make it to the altar today. He'd left her standing in the annex holding a wilting bouquet of pale pink roses and baby's breath and a heart that had been hurt far too many times. Brett didn't believe in God, but he tossed a short prayer into the air asking that Sierra forgive him for what he was about to do.
He spoke her name softly, like a dry leaf scudding along the sidewalk. "Sierra."
She didn't jump as he'd expected. She merely turned to gaze at him over her shoulder, then, without a spark of recognition, returned to her survey of the pounding waves and the invisible horizon darkness had obliterated. He knew he shouldn't have come, should have stayed away from her, but how could he when she felt betrayed, as if her whole world had collapsed? First him and then this man with whom she'd thought she could spend the rest of her life.
He took a deep breath, seized her wrist, and spun her around to face him. "Look at me."
She was exquisite in the off-the-shoulder gown. Bare neck, bare shoulders. She blinked several times. "What do you want, Brett?" she asked in resignation.
He heard the unspoken accusation, wanted to take her in his arms and make her promises of forever, but the tears rolling down her cheeks, one by lonely one, stopped him.
She frowned. "So? You're not often left speechless. A man who must have a great deal of experience with all types of women. Why did you come?" Under the jewelled bodice, her breasts rose and fell. Anger simmered near the surface, waiting with eager tentacles for the wrong words to leap into life.
Brett didn't want her to be alone. Or ashamed at being left at the altar, which was partly his fault. If he hadn't divorced her, would she be happier with him? "I wanted to see if you're okay." Lame, but it was the best he could do.
Really?" She would have turned away, but he grabbed her other wrist and held her at a distance in case she decided to fight him and perhaps knee him in the groin.
He didn't want the night to end before it began.
How could he tell her he'd made a mistake? She was in the throes of rejection, and this wasn't a good time to mention his deepest regrets. "I want to be your friend."

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"Careful for your step, Ms. Brewster."
Emma lifted her silk skirts with one hand and set the other in the stagecoach driver's bulky paw. This was the beginning of a new life, she thought with a mixture of enthusiasm and fear. She guessed he probably knew who she was, but she didn't care as she tipped her head back and gave him a wide smile. It was the first time in eight years she'd actually smiled at a man without offering sex in the brothel where she'd spent that time.
Her heart sang as he returned her smile with a careful gruff upturn of his chapped lips. "Are you sure you're up to this trip, Miss?" he asked solicitously. "Them Indians ain't no white man's friend."
Emma settled herself facing forward on the hard, damask-covered seat and regally spread her dark mauve skirts about her. She was no longer beholden to any man. She was free. "I'm not afraid of anyone," she said, eyeing the driver with a full gaze.
"Right," he muttered, giving her the distinct impression she didn't know exactly what she was getting herself into. "We're off then."
Moments later, the vividly painted stagecoach lurched forward, and Emma was off to her new life in Kansas City. The interior sported delicate gold trim and the outside of the coach was painted a vivid red with bright yellow trim. On the door was a delicate hand-painted landscape. The sun cast short, early afternoon shadows on the narrow, dirt streets but no one waved farewell although a young boy ran alongside hollering and whooping. The wheels rattled and dust billowed under the hooves of the four horses pulling the vehicle. In Kansas City, with her savings, Emma vowed she would go into business as a respectable seamstress. She'd be able to hold her head high and look friend or foe straight in the eye.
She couldn't say she would miss anyone in the brothel. Not that anyone had mistreated her, but she'd had her share of drunken louts groping her body. Only one of the dozens of men had caught her fancy, and briefly, for a few minutes at most, she'd imagined herself in love with the tall, dark stranger who'd bestowed flowers, small trinkets and fancy chocolates on her. Branson had never treated her with anything but respect, had never drank to excess or presented himself as uncouth or foulmouthed.
He'd been a rare gentleman, the kind of man a woman, a well-bred one, could easily love-”if the woman believed in love and hadn't had a past. Emma didn't pride herself on servicing the needs of the miners in the small town, but she'd done what she had to do after, at seventeen, she'd been kicked out of the orphanage where she'd barely survived. If there was a thing called love in the world, it hadn't made its appearance in hers.
The coach left the small town behind and jolted into the desert-like country. Tall reeds waved rhythmically in the breeze. Black-eyed Susans dotted the edge of the dirt road. Dust rose from the dry ground, enveloping everything, including Emma in her silk gown. However, she didn't regret wearing the finery one bit. She was a lady and would act every bit like one.
Her thoughts returned to Branson. She hadn't told him she was leaving, had never even discussed the possibility with him. She hadn't felt the need, and she supposed she was reluctant to tell him anything personal about herself when he shared nothing about who he was. She'd heard, from Mel, another one of the brothel women, that he was on the make, but Mel hadn't been able to tell her more than that. Emma guessed that like herself, many in the small town stayed only as long as they made a buck, and when the marshal went after them or the going got rough, they left without warning.
Branson didn't strike her as the kind of man who fled the law. She remembered gazing into his eyes one night and finding herself holding her breath. The man was strikingly handsome. And big in all the right places. She was tiny compared to him, with a slim waist and small breasts, easy enough for him to 'palm her delicate beauties', he'd told her once with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. When he strolled into a room, he owned it with a presence that dominated everything and everyone around him.
Her thoughts drifted to that day, he'd caught her watching him when he'd purportedly been sleeping after what had been an unusually demanding sexual escapade. She'd reached out with a forefinger to touch his lower lip, and as her flesh had met his, his eyes had flashed open.

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"I suppose I should introduce myself," the doctor said. "Doctor Taylor." Then she gave the most blatant wink Scott had ever received. A come-on if he knew women.
What's going on?" He reached for his trousers but Nurse Justia hurried around the bed, seized them from his hand and threw them on a nearby chair.
"You definitely won't be needing those."
Scott's heart rate accelerated into the danger zone as she bent over, giving him a fine view of her uniform riding up to reveal a peach-shaped ass and no panties whatsoever. Her skin was absolutely flawless. His penis began to come to life. Wrong time, wrong place. 'Doctor' Taylor addressed him. "You might be in need of a little hospital comfort. We've got just the right tests to help you feel much better."
"I bet." Scott folded his arms across his chest and waited.
The nurse stepped forward, stroked his cheek. "You can make this hard or easy on yourself." Her green eyes, flecked with gold twinkled.
Scott knew then he'd been set up. She definitely didn't have a blue dragon tattoo on her ass but the 'doctor' might. He grinned. "Okay ladies. What's your game?"
The doctor tapped her chart. "Unzip your uniform, Nurse Justia." Her words were brusque, an order not to be disobeyed.
Scott knew a bit of harmless fun when he saw it. He nodded. As if he had a choice in this game, whatever it was. Scott figured the two women were a consolation prize. Of sorts.
Nurse Justia repressed a grin. It wouldn't do to show Scott that she was enjoying herself-and getting really turned on in the process. Very slowly, she inched the zipper at the front of her uniform down between her breasts. The 'doctor' was her alter ego directing the drama for the prince's sake, and to make for a more pleasurable experience for Justine.
"Go right up to the prince and let him finish unzipping you," the doctor ordered.
Without smiling, but tremendously enjoying herself, and also the befuddled expression on Scott's charming face, she strolled up to him and met his eyes. He had no reason to know who she really was since she had shifted appearances. Blonde page-boy cut hair, green eyes the colour of a Caribbean paradise, and a slightly taller frame than her own.
The prince didn't hesitate. His cheeks were flushed red and she could see that the bed sheet did nothing to hide his hard cock. Good, then he was aroused and enjoying himself too.
His fingers traced the swell of her breasts before he grasped the tab and pulled it down. The zipper made a tiny rasping sound. The uniform could no longer contain her breasts and the soft flesh spilled out before the tab reached as far as it would go at the base of her stomach. Cool air fanned the already hard nipples into dusky rosebuds.
"What are you doing to me?" Scott whispered even as he thumbed each nipple, sending shivers and tingles of awareness up and down Justine's spine. The horny nurse was going to get what he wouldn't give her as plain Justine Brown.