Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy)

"A steamy story of violence, sin and corruption."

—
San Francisco Chronicle

"Sizzling!"

—
New York Daily News

"Glamour, wickedness and passion . . . A vivid, imaginative tale . . . Builds to a dramatic and unexpected conclusion."

—
Publishers Weekly

"Pacing that hurtles you through the pages."

—
Washington Post Book World

"Erotic . . . An immensely readable yarn."

—
Chicago Tribune

"Gripping . . . Builds in intensity until the dramatic denouement that is not easy to forget."

—
Rave Reviews

Other Books By

KATHRYN HARVEY

Butterfly

Stars

Books By

BARBARA WOOD

Virgins of Paradise

The Dreaming

Green City in the Sun

Soul Flame

Vital Signs

Domina

The Watch Gods

Childsong

Night Trains

Yesterday's Child

Curse This House

Hounds and Jackals

This Golden Land

The Divining

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Private Entrance
Copyright © 2012 Barbara Wood. All rights reserved.
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Private Entrance
is a work of fiction. Although some events and people in this book are based on historical fact, others are the products of the author's imagination.

Cover design by Gina Binkley
Interior design by Mike Penticost

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Harvey, Kathryn.
Private entrance / Kathryn Harvey.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59652-874-1
1. Businesswomen–Fiction. 2. Health resorts–Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.O5877P75 2012
813'.54–dc23

2012006385

Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 18—0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Sharon Stewart—dear friend and beautiful lady. May you win a week's stay at The Grove!

I
N THE EARLY HOURS BEFORE DAWN, AT A LONELY CROSSROADS
in the middle of nowhere, a man stood shivering in a phone booth, mentally urging the person at the other end to pick up. The desert air was killer-cold and the frigid stars didn't help.

     Parked beside the booth was a dusty old Chevy with a woman inside, holding a baby in her arms, a newborn she was coaxing to drink from a bottle. In the back seat, three other babies slumbered, wrapped in blankets and protected with cushions.

     All four babies had been stolen.

     The man in the phone booth heard the other end pick up. "It's Boudreaux," he said quietly into the phone, as if anyone could possibly overhear, he and the woman miles from civilization. "I've got the merchandise."

     He listened, nodding, shoulders hunched against the whistling wind that found its way through cracks in the booth. "Okay," he said after he received his instructions. "We'll be there in an hour. Yeah, that's right. Four. All girls. All white."

     He hung up and ran back to the car, rubbing his hands as he got behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. "Guess what I done, Muriel!" he said gloatingly. "I got him to agree to a extra thousand dollars for each baby!"

     "We should get more," she groused. "These're pedigreed. Come from rich families."

     "That don't mean nothing to the buyers. All's they care is race and sex."

     Muriel frowned, set the bottle down and bent closer to the baby in her arms. "Hey Spencer," she said. "This one's dead."

     "What! You sure?"

     She covered the little face with the blanket and Boudreaux pounded the steering wheel. "Shit!" There went a thousand bucks.

H
IS EYES MEET HERS ACROSS THE AISLE OF THE
F
IRST
C
LASS
cabin. There is a message in his glance that says: the in-flight movie is over, dinner is history, and the other passengers are reading or snoozing. At thirty thousand feet, what else is there to do?

     
He unbuckles his seat belt and stands up to stretch. Custom tailored shirt of pale blue silk pulls tight over defined musculature. No golfer, this man. Extreme sports are his thing.

     
He turns. Coco feels the breath catch in her throat when she sees a hint of heaven in the pleated slacks.

     
A flicker of dark, inviting eyes before he makes his way down the aisle. As he passes Coco's seat, she picks up his manly scent, feels the air around her crackle with electricity, as if a god had just walked past. She doesn't have to turn and look to know he has made his way to the restroom.

     
Coco's pulse races. She's never done it in the john of a 747 before.

     
Dare she?

     
Casually, she gets out of her seat and moves down the aisle. Are people
aware of what these two strangers are up to, what they are about to do?

     
She doesn't know his name, his profession, if he's married. It doesn't matter. They are drawn together in primal need.

     
As she nears, she sees him slip inside. He does not turn the knob to "Occupied."

     
He is waiting.

     
She licks her lips. She has never felt so excited, so keenly sexual. She reaches for the door and slips inside. The compartment is so small they are pressed together as soon as she closes and locks the door. No words, just instant mouth on mouth, arms encircling, fabulous erection pressing against her groin. His hands travel up her thigh and under her skirt. Coco fumbles at the zipper, setting him free. They don't stop kissing, tongues and lips hot and voracious as her panties come away with one tug. He is so strong he lifts her off the floor and perches her on the edge of the sink. He spreads her legs and—

     "Ms. McCarthy? Can I get you another drink?"

     Coco looked up, startled. The flight attendant was smiling down at her. "Um," Coco said. "Yes. Please. Another drink would be great. How soon do we land?"

     The attendant consulted her watch. "We should be arriving in Los Angeles in forty-five minutes."

     "Make it a double."

     Coco sighed and looked at the handsome stranger seated across the aisle, his head bent over a magazine. A man she would never meet, let alone have sex with at thirty thousand feet. The story of her life. Sexual fantasies with strangers, one night stands with men who had promise until they found out what she did for a living. One relationship had actually lasted six months—she and Larry had even moved in together and the air had prickled with the hint of marriage. And then the police had called, the homicide detectives had arrived at her door and Larry ("I can't take it any more.") was history.