Excerpt w/blurb: The Cowboys & The Courtesan (M/M/F, Old West)

Passions collide and secrets crack open when two lonely mavericks tango with “Salome, the Courtesan of Kings!” The dancer’s plea for protection proves more than the cowboys can resist, but not as irresistible as what's uncovered in their host's dressing room...

As a man who’s seen too much evil, Isaac Strong doesn’t believe in love. Joey Parker does, but considers love a lost cause for a young wrangler living a lie. The sultry Sal, a performer in more ways than one, believes in instant attraction and Romeo and Juliet style grand romance--or maybe not. Is “true love” really true for Sal, or merely a game of seduction to be played and won before moving on to the next conquest? Once the action hits a bed big enough for three, no one, not even Sal, is sure.

Move over, Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty! The Wild West has never been wilder, and Dodge City will never seem the same...

THE COWBOYS & THE COURTESAN
An Amber Quill Press best-seller
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
URL: http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/CowboysCourtesan.html

Genres: Historical / The Old West / Ménage (M/M/F) / Group Sex /
Bisexual (M/M) / Interracial / Multicultural

Review snips:
"...stunningly passionate and intense...full of surprises and secrets that capture the imagination and leave readers in awe of the author's storytelling abilities." ~Chrissy Dionne, for Romance Junkies
http://romancejunkiesreviews.com/artman/publish/historical/The_Cowboys_and_the_Courtesan.shtml

"Ms. Riser certainly knows her way around a blazing hot ménage scene. Add a few crazy twists and a generous helping of delightful absurdity and what you have is a frivolously playful tale bursting with wild, wild west kink. Yipee-ki-yay!" ~Patrice F., for Joyfully Reviewed
http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Sep09/thecowboysandthecourtesan.MR.html

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EXCERPT (this is how the story begins):

Dodge City, 1883...

Isaac Strong wrinkled his nose. God knew he was no stranger to stink, but out in the open air of the range ugly odors dissipated faster and seemed easier to stomach. Here in the confines of town the combined smells of animal and man were enough to stagger an ox.

Whew.

Dodge reeked to its rafters from the cattle filled stockyards near the train tracks. Inside the Silver Whistle Saloon on the south side of the tracks--the wrong side for the unwary, unwise, or unarmed--it stank even worse from the crush of unwashed cowboys and the pungent perfume of the whores bent on relieving them of their wages. Booted feet stomped time to the off-key tinkle of an upright piano while lamplight cast a garish glow over figures clad in dusty denims and gaudy gowns. Hoots, hollers, and loud laughter added to the sensory assault.

A few of the cowboys were Isaac’s trail mates who’d ridden in with him that day after grueling weeks in the saddle driving three thousand head of longhorns up from deep in Texas. The rest had arrived earlier with other herds. All were thirsty for hard drink and ravenous for rowdy fun.

Except Isaac. He’d already had his day’s fun buying fresh clothes, then visiting a bathhouse and a barber. Trimmed, pressed, and polished, he now wanted only a solid meal and a soft bed, and he’d been told he might find both at the Silver Whistle. The back of the saloon doubled as a restaurant and the upstairs offered rooms for rent.

The big question was whether or not any of those rooms were open to the son of a slave. Trail dirt scrubbed off but not the rich bronze color of his skin. For thirty years, since infancy, he’d been free--technically--though not always in practice. To many people his skin still labeled him “inferior,” perhaps dangerous. Definitely unfit for polite society.

Which was why he had such high hopes for the Silver Whistle. There was nothing polite about this place. Provided his money was the right color, he doubted anyone here would care what the rest of him looked like.

He was wrong.

Grumbles began the moment he started toward the bar to inquire about food and a bed--foulmouthed mutterings calling him an ape and much worse. The problem, Isaac surmised by the tone of the taunts and the accents of those who uttered them, was that some of the crowd were former Confederates, men who’d lost everything in the war and blamed him and his breed as part of the cause.

On the one hand, as aggravating as he found their politics, Isaac understood their grief. He’d lost family and friends in the war, too. However, he kept his other hand in easy reach of the pearl handle sticking out of his hip holster. He always tried to be kind and forgiving, but he wasn’t stupid.

Besides, the idiots were all drunk as skunks and far less predictable. Maybe they wanted blood and maybe they just wanted to scare him. Not that they’d succeed in either case. If put to the test, he felt confident he could mop up the floor with the lot of them. Strong wasn’t his birth name; he’d earned the title, and it meant exactly what it said. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to demonstrate that, though. He’d hate to dirty his new suit.

Sweaty bodies pressed in close as the crowd thickened near the bar. The rude grumbles grew louder. Too late Isaac realized the hecklers had surrounded him.

“Show us yer tail,” someone hollered. “Ain’t all monkeys got tails?”

“Yeah, but stud monkeys like him wear their tails in front,” came another shout over a chorus of guffaws.

Isaac’s chest heaved with a sigh. Hell, he might have to fight his way out of here, after all. There went his crisp, clean clothes--not to mention his supper and a good night’s sleep.

“Them’s purty fancy duds fer a darkie, boy.” With a nasty smirk, a pockmarked fellow swept up an arm and knocked Isaac’s broad brimmed hat onto the floor. A soft crunch sounded as a boot heel crushed the crown.

That did it. Isaac’s hands fisted in preparation for smashing out the man’s tobacco stained teeth.

Klunk! The ugly coot dropped like a stone before Isaac threw a single punch.

“Well, dang. Poor ol’ Hank musta had a mite too much liquor,” a bright, young voice drawled.

Or a mite too much gun butt applied to the back of his head.

Isaac glanced at the unconscious form crumpled by his feet, then raised his gaze to meet a pair of big blue eyes sparkling with devilment--eyes he recognized since they belonged to his trail team’s wrangler, the slender and blond haired Joey Parker. Soot smudges marred the lad’s friendly face, but then, they always did. Joey and soap had a longstanding feud it seemed.

Nevertheless, he’d been a stalwart companion on the drive up from Texas, accepting Isaac easier and faster than the rest of the team had. If Joey didn’t mind Isaac’s brown skin, Isaac could overlook Joey’s grime. God forbid the wrangler suffer on his account.

He suppressed a groan while Joey discreetly re-holstered his six-shooter. Fortunately, no one else noticed the move.

“Stand clear. You’re going to get yourself in a heap of trouble,” Isaac warned in a whisper.

“Nope, I’m keepin’ you out of trouble.” Joey’s full lips stretched into a wide grin as he brandished a handful of silver dollars in the air. “Belly up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on me!”

Yeehaw. The whole herd of cowboys stampeded, forgetting Isaac and everything else in a mad dash for free booze. Floorboards thundered and whoops shook the rafters. Still dead to the world, ol’ Hank would have been trampled into mush if Isaac hadn’t made a lightning snatch, hoisted him by his belt, hauled him backward and propped him up in a chair against the wall.

Beside the chair stood a low platform with a crimson curtain behind it, creating a makeshift stage, and on the drapery was pinned a theatrical poster proclaiming in bold letters: Salome, the Courtesan of Kings! Interesting. But there was no time to study the picture that went with the caption.

Dirty and disgusted, Joey stomped forward with Isaac’s squashed hat. “What the heck did you do that for? He deserved to be thumped.”

“No doubt. But the gesture demonstrated speed, strength, and a rare generosity of spirit. Your friend is obviously as broad minded as he is broad shouldered,” a sultry tone answered. “Soft heart and hard muscles. I find both qualities most attractive in a man.”

Joey’s posture stiffened. “And just who the dickens are you?”

“One who has been enjoying the view. And your new employer, I hope. Would you two be interested in a temporary job?”

Would they? Lord have mercy...

Isaac’s breath snagged in his throat as a tall, elegant figure swathed in an exotic robe and veil stepped out from behind the curtain and sashayed to the edge of the platform to gaze down at him through mysterious sloe eyes outlined in kohl.

Salome?

The lower half of her face was hidden by a square of saffron silk, but Isaac didn’t need to see her whole face to know she was a beauty--one fit for kings all right. An Oriental queen, that’s what she looked like, sensuous as a summer breeze and hot as the desert sun. Sweet Jesus, she almost blinded him.

An elbow jab in the ribs brought him back to reality.

“You’re starin’ like a moonstruck calf,” Joey hissed, his brow wrinkled by a frown--remarkably unimpressed by feminine glamour, it appeared. Or maybe too young to appreciate it?

Hell, the boy wasn’t that young.

“Who put a burr under your saddle?” Isaac muttered.

Joey ignored the jibe. Crossing his arms over his chest, he aimed a suspicious glare at the woman. “About that job offer... What’re you payin’ and for what sorta work? If it ain’t legal, we ain’t interested.”

Hey now, that was no way to talk to a lady.

Isaac opened his mouth to protest.

Salome silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, it’s honest labor, and quite simple. I merely desire a couple of trustworthy souls to guard this mockery of a stage while I perform my ‘Dance of the Seven Veils.’ A highly artistic exhibition, I assure you.”

She peered over his head at the raucous mob by the bar, disdain evident in her expressive eyes. “You see, I have only arrived here today. This is but a brief stop in a tour I am making across the country. When I was hired for this engagement, I was led to believe the Silver Whistle was a respectable establishment. Now that I know otherwise, however, I hesitate to expose myself to such an uncouth audience without some modicum of protection. Will you help me?”

Expose herself? Lordy, the images that conjured. Isaac was gut wrenchingly certain Salome’s dance was artistic indeed.

He melted inside as her gaze returned to his. In that moment, he’d have walked over hot coals for her. “Ma’am, we’ll do whatever we can, and no charge for the service. It’ll be our extreme pleasure to help.”

“Speak for yourself,” Joey groused. “Oof!” he added when a heavy arm slung around his shoulders crushed the air out of him.

“He’s just joshing,” Isaac said, tightening his grip when Joey squirmed.

“But of course.” Salome chuckled, a delicious, smoky sound that made Isaac’s pulse jump.

A surge of raw heat struck his loins. Oddly enough, the struggles of the firm, young body locked against his side aggravated the sensation. Pure imagination--it had to be--but unnerving. He wasn’t the kind of man who lusted after boys, for godssake. His hold broke, and Joey stumbled free, gasping and flushed, as though he’d felt a physical spark, too--and not so imaginary.

Good God. Joey’s apparent immunity to female charms suddenly took on a whole new, disturbing possibility. Isaac slanted a wary, sideways look at him.

Blushing scarlet, Joey stared everywhere but at Isaac.

Which meant what?

Salome chuckled again--for no good reason that Isaac could see. The dancer seemed to be enjoying some obscure, private joke. With willowy grace and the rustle of silk, she turned and pulled aside the curtain, revealing an open door that led into a dim hallway.

“Come up to my suite, gentlemen, and we shall discuss the details of our liaison.”

Liaison?

Isaac tensed. As a well-schooled man--and, yes, his education both surprised and frightened those of a bigoted mindset--he knew the term, but Miss Salome probably meant a liaison of the business sort as opposed to the sexual. Not that he’d refuse the latter if she offered it. The shock he’d just experienced with Joey had given him a powerful hankering to prove his masculinity with a woman--which the exquisite Salome most definitely was. All woman. His heart hammered against his ribs as she paused in the doorway to glance over her shoulder at him.

“I forgot to ask your names, gentlemen.”

And Isaac couldn’t tell her because for a mortifying moment he forgot what he was called. Those hypnotic eyes of hers sucked all coherent thought out of his head. While he did a quick, mental scramble to rake his wits back together, Joey answered for them both.

“This here’s Isaac Strong and I’m Joey Parker. ’Cept I’m no gentleman,” the young wrangler declared.

“Ah, but we shall make you one.” Salome’s gaze narrowed in speculation. “In my dressing room there should be by now a large tub of hot water that I ordered from the kitchen a short time ago. However, I believe you need a bath more than I do, my friend.”

Understatement of the year. But Isaac approved the idea. “That’s mighty generous of you, ma’am. We thank you.”

“Oh, no, we don’t!” An expression of pure panic on his smudged face, Joey bolted for the saloon’s rear exit.

Isaac caught him by the back of his shirt, dragged him up onto the platform and through the door in Salome’s wake. “Oh, yes, we do. A little soap won’t hurt you, son. I’ve been wondering for weeks what you look like under all that dirt.”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know,” Joey moaned.

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Note: "The Cowboys & The Courtesan" is also available in the paperback anthology PIRATES & OTHER WICKED PLEASURES at:
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/PiratesWickedPleasures.html