The Frenchman was everything Jeanette St. John detested. A
mercenary, a man with no morals, a renegade. But Kitt was
reckless and daring, cautious and calculating – and he was
captain of one of the fastest ships on the ocean. And so she
bargained with the devil – on his terms. In exchange for
transporting her cotton and turning it into medical supplies
and ammunition for her beloved Confederacy, she was to let
him ravish her for every shipment he delivered.
Once upon a time, or so begin the fairy tales, there was a
bluestocking spinster and a gin-sodden cowpoke. Sourly,
suspiciously, the two sat eyeing one another across a
smoke-hazed, liquor-stinking barroom. Each pondered the mad
quirk of foolishness that had brought them to that seedy
cantina on Calle de Noche Triste in Juarez, Mexico. . . .
“How ’bout a little night of love, querida?†“Beat it
mister!†Her brown eyes flashed at him, and she looked away,
muttering, “I’m waiting for someone.†“So?†He winked
lecherously. “This carcass doesn’t take long to pleasure,
sweetheart. Five minutes in the back room oughta do it.†He
could see he had rattled her, although she was striving to
cover it. Her mouth curled contemptuously. “I’ve bitten a
few rotten coins, mister,†she hissed, “and don’t need to
hook up with the likes of you."
So began the acquaintance of the indomitable Roxana Van
Buren and the unconquerable Sam Brady.