Excerpt of The Art of Desire by Cherie Feather

Prologue

Texas, 1895The first time I saw him he was naked, morning-
dappled water lapping at his skin, swirling around tendon-
tight calves. His rifle, a gun he’d probably stolen from a
rancher, was at the edge of the stream, well within his
reach.A hawk soared above his head, screeching like a red-
tailed devil, creating a strangely spiritual arc.
Mesmerized, the Indian followed its every move.I knew he
was unaware of me. Although I was no more than twenty to
thirty steps away, I was crouched amongst a copse of
cottonwoods. Earlier I’d been napping there, and upon
awakening, I’d lifted my head and spotted him through a
branch-scattered gap in the foliage, a stunned gasp locked
in my throat.

Was this my punishment for dozing in the sun? Or my reward?
I’d gone to that location to work, to sketch the scenery.

I longed to draw him instead. But I couldn’t find the will
to move, to do more than stare. Curiously handsome, his
bluish-black, cheekbone-length hair framed the hollowed
angles and mysterious shadows that sculpted his face.
Muscled ridges and flat planes defined his body, with wide
shoulders and a powerful chest. His thighs, I decided, had
been built for striding the horse that grazed nearby. A
stolen mount, no doubt. A prize that went with his rifle.

Taking a swift breath, I centered my gaze, filling my
vision with his penis. I measured the length and fullness,
but I imagined how it would look fully erect, with his
testes drawn tight, his foreskin pushed back and the
sensitive head exposed.

Queen Victoria shame me.

In my own country, I was a rumored bohemian, London-borne,
Paris schooled, an artist seceding from conventionality, an
upper-class girl who’d cast her morals to the wind, who’d
stroked many a cock with her hands, even with her ruby-red
mouth.

But the gossip wasn’t true. Not completely. I fantasized
about those carnal acts, but the only cocks I dared stroke
were with a collection of Asiatic marten brushes.

The hawk flew away, abandoning its circling post. The
Indian snapped out of his trance and continued his bath. My
heart pounded like the drums of his people. I knew who he
was. He was an Apache prisoner of war who’d escaped from a
military fort in Oklahoma Territory. Last week U.S. Army
soldiers had scoured this area in search of him. They’d
ridden into town with a photograph, asking if anyone had
seen him. They’d gone to ranches and farms, too. When
they’d come to my house, I’d gazed curiously at his picture.

And now here he was.

I should have remained motionless until he went away. But
somewhere in the peril of my soul, I found the strength to
sit upright, to lift a piece of charcoal from my ready-made
paintbox. The paper clamped to my stretching board was cold-
pressed, better suited for rough effects than a detailed
portrait of a bared man. But I was willing to compromise.
Desire burned like a hot-wick candle beneath the folds of
my skirt.

I had moved to America to study its ethnic, geographic, and
religious diversity, to paint its fading frontier. So why
not study him? Make him my secret project?

“Atacar,” I whispered his name. It was of Spanish origin,
and in English it meant, “to attack.”

Suddenly he went still, his dark gaze shooting through the
trees like an obsidian-tipped arrow. He couldn’t have heard
his barely audible name on my lips, yet he’d found me out.

The charcoal slipped from my fingers; my paper remained
blank.

Our eyes met, and he reacted like a hound on the heels of a
fox. Before I could blink, he grabbed the rifle, jammed it
against his water-damp shoulder and aimed it at me.

I did the unthinkable. I looked at his penis again,
challenging the air between us. His face remained an
indiscernible mask, devoid of emotion, of any kind of lust.
But in his fire-ready stance, his stomach muscles jumped,
giving him away, making his cock stir.

From there, neither of us moved.

Finally he motioned with his chin, ordering me out into the
open. I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my arms in surrender and
walked toward him.

Praying he would take me.

Dirty sex with a dirty boy.

That was all Mandy Cooper, the proper, professional, highly
organized director of the Santa Fe Women’s Art Museum,
could think about.

She was addicted to Jared Cabrillo, Atacar’s great-great
nephew, a man who sizzled in the art scene, who was
notorious for having public liaisons, who wielded his
celebrity like the party-on-the-edge charmer he was.

Mandy could feel him watching her from across the museum.
She and her staff were hosting a summer reception and he’d
crashed the event.

She tried to avoid him, but she couldn’t. His gaze was too
strong, too persistent. She gave up the fight and looked at
him, too.

Their eyes met, and he lifted his wine and toasted her
before he put the glass to his lips and drank the blood-red
liquid.

She gripped the silver chain on her evening bag, locking it
around her wrist like a handcuff. He was drop-dead,
imprison-a-woman gorgeous. There was no other way to
describe him. He walked toward her, and her panties stuck
to her skin, making her want to rub her thighs together.

“Nice party,” he said, as they came face to face.

“It’s going well.” She’d been sleeping with him for almost
a month, yet she couldn’t stop herself from staring.

He sported a retro-style, black western shirt, decorated
with white piping and tucked into crisp jeans. His face,
diamond-blade dazzling and stone-quarry tough, mirrored his
heritage. Both ears showcased tiny silver hoops. He had an
intimate body piercing and tribal tattoos, too.

He was everything she shouldn’t want. At thirty-eight, she
was supposed to know better. He was ten years younger than
she was, but he wasn’t her boy toy. He controlled their
affair, enticing her into carnal situations.

He set his empty glass on a nearby table. “You look
beautiful, Mandy.”

“Thank you.” Her black dress scooped modestly in front and
the delicate silver-and-turquoise cross around her neck
offered a hint of adornment.

Aside from their naked urges, they didn’t know each other
very well. They didn’t have meaningful conversations. But
at least she knew he wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t
cheat on his lovers. Of course that didn’t change who and
what he was. He treated monogamy like a courtesy, not a
commitment.

Needing a diversion, Mandy turned toward a famous portrait
of Jared’s ancestor. They were standing in front of
Atacar’s exhibit.

He was the museum’s most prized possession, a Catherine
Burke treasure, a portrait remarkable for its depth and
passion, for its stunning realism. But Atacar was more than
Catherine’s greatest work. So much more. The nineteenth
century artist was rumored to have loved him, just as he
was rumored to have loved her.

But no one knew for sure.

Catherine had abandoned her Texas home, never to be heard
from again, and soon after she’d disappeared, Atacar had
been shot and killed by a trio of soldiers.

As Mandy looked into his eyes, an air-conditioned chill
blasted from the ceiling, sending goose bumps along her
arms.

He was an imposing figure, his head cocked just so, his
expression dark and serious. Positioned in a straight-back
chair, he gripped the barrel of a Winchester rifle. She
tried to imagine him sitting for Catherine while the daring
girl painted his image. His clothes consisted of Anglo
gear, reminiscent of ranchers and farmers, but he was
Chiricahua Apache, an enlisted army scout who’d become a
prisoner of war.

Mandy blinked, but Atacar’s gaze remained constant. The
museum had acquired his portrait nearly forty years ago.
Prior to that, it had been hidden inside the walls of the
farmhouse where Catherine had lived.

Upon its discovery, their romantic legacy had begun. Rumors
spawned that they’d been lovers. That she’d disappeared
because of him. That their desperate hearts would remain
forever entwined.

But once again, no one knew for sure.

The only ray of hope was that Catherine had kept a secret
journal, writings that had never been found.

By now, most of the art world thought the journal was a
myth. But Mandy chose to believe otherwise. She had the
museum historian searching for it.

Suddenly Jared moved closer, close enough to invade Mandy’s
space, to attack her senses. She could smell the spicy
notes of his cologne. She turned to face him, his ancestor
fading into the background.

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

He smoothed the front of his hair. He wore it plaited into
a single braid, leaving the hardened angles of his face
unframed. “To fuck you.”

Her addiction jabbed her hard and quick, like a needle to a
starving vein. “I’m working, Jared.”

“That’s what makes it so fun.” Fun or not, he didn’t smile.
He just looked at her with the same driven expression as
when he’d toasted her with his merlot or cabernet or
whatever he’d been drinking. “Like when we do it at my
work.”

She didn’t respond. He was a highly successful breeder,
trainer, and showman who managed his own horse farm.
Banging each other’s brains out in his barn wasn’t the same
as getting naked at the museum.

His gaze turned darker, more intense. “You could take me to
your office. You could make me do things to you.”

Hedonic chills vibrated her spine. By now, they were just
inches apart. He kept moving closer, drawing her into his
seductive sphere, doing what he always did.

“What things?” she asked.

“You could take off your panties, order me to my knees and
lift your dress in front of my face. You could make me
taste how sweet you are.”

The room started to spin. She wanted his mouth between her
legs. But envisioning herself standing in front of him,
making him do it was almost more than she could bear.

“Does that excite you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What else turns you on? What other games do you want to
play?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice shook. “I honestly don’t know.”
At the moment she just wanted to crawl all over him, to
fall like a sugared gumdrop at his feet.

“I’ll bet she did it,” Jared said.

“What? Who?”

“Catherine.” Jared moistened his lips. “I’ll bet she lifted
her skirts in front of Atacar’s face. I’ll bet she came all
over him.” His voice was soft and low, dangerously
demanding. “Do it, Mandy. Be bad for me.”