Enchantress

This is a re-release; formerly published in Business or Pleasure or ... Both, by Liquid Silver Books in 2003.

Successful businessman Eric Thorsson Ward has worked hard to reach the stage in life where he could have anything he wants - - and he wants Gina Morelli. Problem is successful businessmen remind Gina of her father, a man who’d abandoned her mother, took her brother, and started a whole new family, one that didn’t include her.

When she finds her brother shot and the threatening phone calls start, Gina reluctantly accepts Eric’s offer of protection and help. After all, even if he breaks her heart, she‘ll still be alive.

REVIEWS:

"Ms. Morgan has written an excellent and highly erotic Murder Mystery ... I would ... highly recommend reading the book. ... Ms. Morgan's heroine is a gutsy modern woman who can hold her own in any high-powered business boardroom but becomes all woman when she meets her true mate."--Magnolia for Women on Writing Reviews.

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4 Stars! from Huntress
""Okay, here is my warning that this is an "erotica". ... Yes, this tale does have a plot and it is very believable. There are two steamy love scenes and a few hot teasers. ... Eric and Gina are very intelligent characters."--Detra Fitch for Huntress Reviews.

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"I liked the basic idea of Enchantress because it centered around a man that knows what he wants. Raer Morgan knows what makes a man irresistible, she's written Eric as a man that only knows what he wants, but is confident about his ability to get it."--Sin StLuke for Just Erotic Romance Reviews.

Excerpt:

Shivering from the cold, damp air of a typical San Francisco spring night, Eric Ward pulled the collar of his jacket around his neck. The walk back to his office's parking garage was a fitting punishment for underestimating the anger of a woman scorned.

He'd never hit a woman in anger - - ever - - but had been close to it tonight. Adrienne had turned from a beautiful, sexy woman into a screaming, foul-mouthed bitch within the space of a nanosecond. She'd slapped him and tried to knee him in the balls. Easily handling her attack, he tossed her and his parting gift, a check for five thousand dollars, on the bed.

In the lobby, he waved off the taxi the doorman offered to hail and decided to take the long walk along Market Street back to his car. He needed to cool down.

But, he hadn't wanted to freeze his ass off.

Typical for a Friday night, this particular section of Market Street was crowded. On the south side of the street was the Tenderloin, the current darling of downtown gentrification. The gay community of San Francisco had adopted the seedy neighborhood and gradually made it a nighttime destination. On the other side, squeezed in between the San Francisco Opera, the city office buildings and Market was a small triangular-shaped area called Hayes Valley - - a bustling district of restaurants, clubs and shops.

Just the right atmosphere for Adrienne Fouchet. At a $1,000 a session, she could well afford the exclusive neighborhood. And Eric had never quibbled at the price. His profession as a corporate raider left him little time for cultivating a long-term, personal relationship. He was, therefore, quite willing to pay to have his more basic needs met.

Rapidly losing the feeling in his feet and hands, Eric decided to stop at a Hayes Valley bar, grab a blood-warming, toe-thawing Scotch, and have the bartender call him a cab.

Morelli's Bar and Grill looked to be a warm and inviting place. It also had the advantage of being on the corner and close. Pushing the ornate, Deco-inspired door open, he entered a thirty's-style bar.

The clean, sleek lines appealed to him. Now, if they carried a good selection of Scotches, he just might have found a new watering hole for those times he had to take clients to the Opera.

He wended his way through the busy restaurant, his goal, the mahogany and chrome bar.

Seating himself on the only empty stool, he glanced about the room while he waited for the busy bartender. The crowd was a mix of trendy gay males, city white-collar workers and couples whiling away the time before the Opera's evening performance.

"What'll you have, sir?"

Eric turned his full attention toward the bartender. "What brands of Scotch do you carry?"

The man rattled off a long and respectable list.

God knew he needed a drink after the scene with Adrienne. His gut had been warning him for some time that something was . . . off with the woman. But he sure as hell hadn't expected his hired investigator to come back with the story that Adrienne Fouchet neé Ann Jones had once been a Seattle-based professional dominatrix with a penchant for female love slaves.

The concrete facts decided the matter for Eric. Bottom-line - - deception in a mere name was one thing, but deception as to a person's true nature was something he would not tolerate.

"I'll have the Dalwhinnie, on the rocks with a twist." As the man turned to get his order, Eric called him back, "Later, would it be possible to call a cab?"

"No problem. The hostess will be happy to do it for you. Just let me know and I'll call her over when you're ready to leave."

"Thanks."

All was now right in Eric's world. The nasty scene with Adrienne was a thing of the past. He hadn't taken her threats to make him pay for dumping her seriously. Of course, he hadn't. And even if she tried something, well, she would regret it. He'd risen from the mean streets south of Market, fought for his country in some of the most dangerous places in the world, and had managed to stay alive. It was those survival skills that had made him wealthy and powerful. The same skills had told him to end his relationship with Adrienne and move on.

No, Adrienne couldn't harm him.

But he would miss the no-strings-attached, sensual pleasures she provided - - the sumptuous gourmet meals, the fine wines, and the post-dinner sexual fun and games.

He took a sip of the pale-gold single malt scotch. Liquid warmth spread throughout his body. He could feel his toes once more. This stop had been an excellent idea.

Turning his back to the bar, he swiveled on the stool to survey the crowd once more. One group in the corner, at what a LA-restaurateur would call a power table, attracted and held his attention. Opera-goers, he surmised. The men wore tuxes and the women wore basic black, showing lots of skin accented with glittering jewelry. He could almost smell the expensive perfumes and colognes from his vantage point across the room.

Wait a minute, who was this? Every cell in his body stood at attention, his senses became more acute. His eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on the newcomer. He sniffed the warm, smoky air and separated out a new musky scent. All sounds in the room receded into a background of white noise.

Danger? No, not danger. If there had been, he'd have moved by now. Old, life-saving habits were hard to break.

His senses were on high alert for another reason. They'd found prey.

Dressed in the de rigueur basic black, she approached the power table. But unlike the other women in the bar, her dress exposed no skin other than her face and hands.

She was by far the sexiest woman in the room.

Eric's gaze drank in long Titian-red hair, a mass of curls reaching to the middle of her back. The form-fitting black dress lovingly hugged a figure reminiscent of a young Racquel Welch - - large, full, bra-less breasts, narrow waist flowing into lush, curvy, but firm hips. She wore supple leather stiletto-heeled boots which displayed her calves and dainty ankles to perfection.

At that second, she turned more fully toward him. Her face fit perfectly with the rest of the package God had provided. Exotic, almond-shaped eyes, their shade indeterminate in the subdued lighting of the room. Straight, slightly Roman nose. High cheekbones. And, full lips painted blood red.

He visualized those scarlet lips around his cock as the enchantress in black kneeled before him, her breasts thrust forward, hands fondling his balls. Of course, she'd be naked except for a piece of jewelry chosen by him especially for her. Maybe, a jeweled waist chain or diamond rings for her pierced nipples. The pierced nipples and their rings which he, or anyone choosing to observe, could see outlined against the thin black covering of her dress.

That she was a sensual woman was obvious from the way she wore her clothes, carried herself. God knew, she rang all his buzzers and bells - - he was fully aroused, hard and wanting. If she could bring him to this point of need fully clothed, from clear across a crowded room, he could only imagine what would happen if he had her naked - - and in the complete privacy of his bedroom.

His bedroom? He never took women to his home. It was a rule he'd made after he'd opted out of Special Forces - - never create a situation where he would be open and vulnerable to attack. Which was another reason why he bought his sex partners, like Adrienne, and never, ever, slept the full night with them.

But somehow, he knew if he could claim this woman as his, she'd be the exception to the rule. Something about her called to everything that was primitive in him. He wanted to kill the man she spoke to, whisk her away to his lair, and keep her from other men's eyes.

The territorial imperative. Fight, claim, hold. ** End of Excerpt.

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