Shannon had badgered her endlessly, so Mo had given in, and much to her chagrin. She now sat at the long polished bar at the Spotted Cat Jazz Club. Shannon insisted it was “real” New Orleans jazz, not the gimmicky stuff for tourists, but a place the locals loved. Personally, Mo liked country music. However, she wouldn’t dare say that in here, she’d probably get killed with just a look.

She glanced at her watch for the tenth time and lamented the fact that her friend was running late as usual. Mo ran on military time. If you were supposed to be somewhere at nineteen hundred hours, seven o’clock civilian time, then you got there at a quarter to seven or you were late. Shannon ran on southern time. That meant she arrived around seven-thirty, if Mo was lucky.

She sipped her slippery nipple and tapped her foot on the bar stool. Mo didn’t have PTSD exactly, but she was uncomfortable in crowds. She liked to keep her back to the wall and her eye on the door. In this place, however, if she moved to a back booth, she wouldn’t be able to see the entrance. Her eyes nevertheless, scanned the room in a continuous arc, unconsciously searching the room for danger, and she kept an ever-present gaze toward the front door.

Therefore, she couldn’t have missed his entrance. Six-foot-three inches of solid muscle encased in black leather pants and a skin tight black T-shirt sauntered in the door. His face was surrounded by a mass of shaggy brown hair, but it was the deep black eyes that zeroed in on her that held her stunned. Those eyes shone with a moment of incredible recognition, quickly masked, and then his face split into a brilliant smile. Bright white teeth flashed in his dark skin, and the man headed straight for her.

Oh shit! Cara turned back to the bar, hoping in vain the man would not approach. She knew her ploy had failed when she felt a warm presence at her side.

“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice with a slight Cajun lilt asked, sending heat cascading up her spine. As much as Cara wanted to say “yes” she couldn’t lie. “No, please have a seat,” she answered.

“Mataus Montoya,” he said extending a hand to her. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. A spark zipped up her arm at the contact.

“Cara Konklin, but you can call me Mo.”

“Really? How do you get Mo out of Cara?”

“Long story. I was in service and it’s just what I ended up with as a nickname. Everyone calls me Mo.”

“But you won’t tell me how you got the nickname?”

“Nope, gotta earn that privilege.”

“Well, I look forward to that. Can I buy you a drink, Mo?”

“I’m still good with this one, but thanks.”

“You here all alone?”

“No, I’m waiting for friends. They are running late, as usual,” she muttered.

“Uh oh. Not happy with your friends?”

“Oh, I’m not mad. Just irritated. Shannon is always late. It’s a pet peeve of mine.”

“I’ll try to remember that too.”

“Why would you need to remember that?”

“Because I will be seeing you again.”

“Moving a little fast there, cowboy. What makes you think so?”

“I can see the future?”

Mo raised an eyebrow at him. “Seriously? Does that line ever work with girls?”

Mataus laughed. “I’m not joking. I’m a psychic,” he said with a straight face.

“You’re really not joking are you?”

He reached out and took both her hands in his. “No, I’m not.”

Mo was getting a little freaked out. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

He stroked a thumb across her knuckles. “Because I’ve been dreaming of you.”

She pulled her hands back as if she’d been burned. What the fuck?

“Okay, mister, did somebody give you a day pass from the funny farm?”

The man had the gall the laugh, hard. “No, sweet Mo. I love that name, by the way. I am not an escaped mental patient. You do know you are in New Orleans, right? Home of psychics, HooDoo, VooDoo, and all kinds of other spiritual phenomenon.”

“I live in Prairieville, I’m not used to you crazy New Orleans folk,” Mo replied.

Mataus shook his head. “We’re not crazy, just a little different.”

“If you say so,” Mo knew she looked skeptical. Shannon and Mike chose that moment to make an appearance. Shannon threw her arms around Mo’s neck from behind and kissed her cheek.

“Hey lady, sorry we’re late. The sitter was late—”

“Save it, soldier. I know the drill,” Mo interrupted.

Shannon laughed. “Yeah, I know, ‘no excuses, soldier.’ So, who’s the handsome honey keeping you company? Introduce us.”

“Mataus Montoya, may I present my erstwhile friends Shannon and Mike Hodgins.”

“Mataus Montoya? Are you the Mataus Montoya? The famous artist? The one that does all those fabulous landscapes of New Orleans?” Shannon asked.

Mataus blushed. “Guilty as charged, yes.”

“Wow, Mo. You’re sitting with a celebrity.”

“Hmm, I thought you said you were a psychic? And frankly, I thought you were crazy.”

Shannon looked from one to the other with curiosity.

“I am a psychic, I didn’t say it was my job,” Mataus replied. “And I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

“What’s going on here?” Shannon asked.

“Let’s get a table. I think we have some talking to do,” Mo said.

The four of them found a booth in a far corner of the bar, not that anywhere in the place was quiet, but it was as close as you could come. Far from the stage and the band. Drinks were ordered and a goggly-eyed Shannon barely contained herself until the waitress walked away.

“I can’t believe you met Mataus Montoya in this bar and I missed it! Now tell me what the hell is going on! What’s all this about him being psychic?” she directed her question to Mo.

“Well, Mr. Montoya here says he has been dreaming about me and we are going to see each other again. What do you think of that, Ms. Busybody?”

“Hot damn! I think it’s great!”

Mo sighed, she should have known. Shannon turned to Mataus. “So you’re really psychic? What kind of psychic are you? Clairvoyant? Telepathic? Psychometric?”

Mo rolled her eyes, of course Shannon would know all about psychics.

Mataus nodded at Mo. “I like her,” he said, indicating Shannon. “I am clairvoyant. Though, unfortunately, not a strong one. I see visions in my dreams mostly, and they are unclear. They come in bits and pieces and I can’t control them.”

“Oh, that must be frustrating,” Shannon said.

“It can be. Yes.” Mataus replied.

“But, you’ve seen our Mo in your dreams?”

“Yes. For weeks now.”

“Wow, that is so cool! What did you see?”

Mataus blushed to the roots of his hair and Mo wondered just what the hell he had been dreaming.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say, I knew I would be meeting the lovely lady and she would be important to me.”

“Oh my,” Shannon said fanning her face with a hand. “Like destined mates! That just makes me want to cry.”

“Toilet paper commercials make you cry, it doesn’t take much,” Mo muttered. Shannon punched her in the shoulder.

“Quit being such a hard ass soldier and be a girl for once,” Shannon scolded.

“Sorry, doll face, I still bleed red, white and blue,” Mo said. “No pink in these veins.”

A shiver ran through Mataus at the mention of blood as he remembered his dream. He didn’t want to go there. He reached out a hand. “Dance with me?”

Mo shrugged. “Sure.” She put her hand in his and that strange zing zipped down her arm again. He placed a hand at the small of her back and led her to the small dance floor. The band was playing something slow and bluesy. Mo wasn’t much of a dancer, more of a tom-boy all her life, so she just followed where he led. Thankfully, Mataus pulled her into his arms and shuffled into a slow box-step. That she could manage.

He rested one hand on the small of her back and held her other hand nestled between their bodies, close to his heart. As they swayed to the music her head seemed to find its way to his chest through no volition of her own. Eyes closed, the strong steady beat of his heart pounded in her ears and her own picked up the rhythm and began to beat in sync. His chin rested on the top of her head, the stubble of his five o’clock shadow brushed her hair and the rasp sent chills down her spine. They molded together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. His thigh pressed between her legs as they turned and Mo struggled not to moan. What the hell is going on here? Mo had never been a particularly sexual person. She’d had sex, of course, but it was just that, sex. It scratched an itch and it was okay. She never understood what her friends went on and on about. Since she’d come home from Iraq, sex hadn’t even been on her radar. That was probably why Shannon had been so insistent that she come out with them tonight. But never in her twenty-seven years had her body reacted like this.

Mo felt like a cat in heat. A pulse throbbed in her belly, her panties were more than damp, they were soaking wet. She wanted to rub up against Mataus and climb him like a tree. And she wasn’t even sure she liked the man for Christ’s sake! His spiritual beliefs clashed with her practical outlook on life and she wasn’t sure she could deal with that. However, regardless of what her mind thought, her body wanted him. Bad!

Mataus leaned down and whispered, “I know your friends are here, but I really want to talk to you, alone. Will you come to my house with me?” his warm breath tickled her ear, sending shivers of excitement racing down her spine. Mo looked up into black eyes that shined with warmth and sincerity. Deciding she may as well hop on the crazy train with him, she nodded her head.

Mataus led her back to the table and she retrieved her purse and said a quick goodbye to Shannon and Mike. Shannon gave her a cheeky smile and knowing look, Mo just shook her head. In the parking lot Mo headed for her big black truck. Mataus gazed at the vehicle with trepidation.

“Would you mind taking my car? I’ll bring you back for your truck in the morning.”

Mo was shocked for a moment. He was assuming a lot. She hadn’t agreed to spend the night with him. Only to talk. Oh, who was she kidding, they both knew there would be a lot more than talking on the menu.

Nodding slowly, she said, “Okay, I guess that works. If you think it’s safe to leave it here.”

“It is.”

“Well, if the psychic says so, I guess I can believe it.”

“So, you are starting to believe in my powers?” Mataus asked.

Mo shrugged. “I’m a bit of a doubting Thomas, but I have to admit you’re right about one thing, there is definitely something going on between us,” she said with a smile.

Mataus caged her to the truck, arms on either side of her and pressed in close. “Yes, there is,” he whispered, his lips so close his breath was like a kiss, and then his hands came up and framed her face. Thumbs delicately brushing her cheekbones and then sliding down to her earlobes, he tilted her chin up and tasted her lips with a soft sweet kiss. No one had ever kissed her like that before. A gentle sweep of lips, like butterfly wings, gentle, velvety, delectable. Then his tongue curved out, lightly stroking her bottom lip. She opened for him and it slipped inside, hot and wet, to curl and twine with hers in a dance as old as time. Mo clutched at his T-shirt, her legs weak with desire, and Mataus’ arms came around her drawing her closer, holding her up at the same time.

Slowly he eased back from the kiss. Kissing along her upper lip, the corners of her mouth, then her cheeks and her closed eyelids, until he held her face in his hands and pecked her nose. “Tu es belle, Cara mine,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

“No one calls me Cara,” she said, leaning her head against his chest.

“I think I will,” he murmured. “It suits you. Now, come on.” He pulled her by the hand to his car, a 1964 Mustang convertible, fully restored, and his pride and joy.

“This is your car?” Mo asked. “No wonder you wanted to take it. It’s a beauty.”

“Thanks.” He opened the door for her and handed her in, buckling the seatbelt and stealing another quick kiss before jogging to the driver’s side and slipping behind the wheel. With a turn of the key the engine roared to life and Mo laughed. “Wow, this thing has some power, huh?”

“You betcha.” He gunned the engine. “Two-hundred and thirty horsepower V-8, baby!”

“The only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys,” Mo teased.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” Mataus said, as he roared out of the parking lot.

Mataus handled the car like a pro. Shifting gears seamlessly and sliding through the New Orleans traffic like it wasn’t even there. They reached his house in about twenty minutes and Mo was impressed.

It was a beautiful old home in the Garden district. Built in the Victorian style with a wide front porch, supporting a second story balcony that was also open to the street from the upstairs room, both were supported with large white columns. The house itself was painted a soothing green. White wooden rocking chairs sat on either side of the large window on the left side of the house and a small table and chairs sat at the right of the front door. It was inviting and warm, making you want to sit and sip a glass of tea or lemonade and watch the world go by.

The railing on the second story balcony was an intricate filigree of wrought iron, mirrored in the railing on the front porch, it was a stark black. A stunning contrast to the white of the pillars. While it was obvious the home had been built long ago, probably in the 1800’s, it was in pristine condition.

“My God, Mataus, your house is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I like it.”

“Have you lived here long?”

Mataus got a wistful look on his face. “No, I bought it when my art finally took off. I’ve been here about three years. It had a perfect spot for a studio and I fell in love with it.”

He handed her out of the car and leaned in to kiss her lips again. “I can't keep my lips off you, cher. You taste so sweet.”

Mo could feel a blush warm her cheeks and she wasn’t a blushing kind of girl.

“Come on, let me show you inside,” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders.

The inside was as beautiful as the outside. Open and inviting. Bright colors, an open floor plan, a modern kitchen with beautiful granite countertops. It all passed in a blur as Mataus led her to the living room. Here the décor was all male, but reflected his artist’s soul. Deep forest green, overstuffed furniture; a sectional sofa, a humongous recliner, a coffee table that looked to be hand-carved, the base a stalking panther, with a smoked glass top, and of course the requisite sixty-inch, flat screen TV hanging from the wall.

Mataus sat on the sofa pulling her down beside him, practically in his lap. “Do you want a drink? Something to eat?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said, settling in next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you agreed to come here with me. I know you don’t believe in spirituality the way that I do.”

She looked up at him. “No, I don’t, but something is happening between us. Something I’ve never felt before.”

“I’m glad you feel it too,” he said stroking her cheek, but a momentary flicker of sadness flashed across his face.

Mo sat up. “What is it Mataus? What’s wrong?”

* * * *

Now came the time when she was really going to think he was crazy. Well, he better bite the bullet and get it over with. “I need to talk to you about my dreams.”

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word and pulling further back from him.

Mataus wrapped an arm around her hips and drew her onto his lap. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not pulling away from me.” With her draped across his lap he began. “This may seem like an odd question, but…is there a man in your life?”

Mo bristled. “What the hell kind of woman do you think I am? If I had a man in my life I wouldn’t be here with you!” she scolded.

“I didn’t think so, but—has anyone been hanging around? Maybe paying you attention, but you haven’t been reciprocating?”

“Honey, the only men in my life are my horses and the kids in my program and they are all too young to have crushes on women. They still think girls have cooties. Except for Jimmy and Bill, they work for me, but I’ve known them for years. I assure you neither of them is in the least bit interested in me. Why?”

“Kids in your program? What program?”

“Mataus,” She said with a sigh. “You are deflecting. Why are you asking about a man in my life? Are you jealous? We’ve only just met.”

He rubbed his fingers across her knuckles. “No, it’s something I saw in one of my dreams,” he said looking at a spot on the floor between his knees. Mo lifted his chin and looked into his eyes.

“Quit beating around the bush and just tell me already. I’m a big girl, an Army vet. I survived being crushed by a Humvee, I can take it.”

“You what?” he exclaimed.

“Story for another time. Spill.”

His dark eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment and he shook his head. “In my dream I saw a dark figure sneaking around your truck. A man. And then I saw an explosion, fire and flames. Danger.”

Goosebumps raced up Mo’s spine like someone had walked over her grave. Not a great analogy at this point. She might have her reservations where psychic phenomenon was concerned, but touching Mataus’ hands and hearing him relive his dream, she could almost see it with her own eyes. She could feel the danger he felt, sense the evil, and it skittered over her skin as if a thousand spiders creeped and crawled.

Mataus saw her pale and she began to tremble. He crushed her in his arms. “My visions aren’t the only future, cher. They are a possible future. We can change it. We will change it. We just have to figure out how.”

* * * *

Mataus kissed her, passionate and deep. A promise sealed in the kiss. He would keep her safe. The tremors of fear that had wracked her body changed to shivers of desire. Her hands threaded into the mass of his thick dark hair and held his head to hers, increasing the pressure of the kiss. Wild and demanding, she thrust her tongue into his mouth, needing more of him. Needing all of him. He responded in kind, dueling with her tongue. Stroking, sliding, sucking…giving and demanding in equal measure.

Mataus stood with her in his arms, never breaking the kiss and strode to the stairs. His bulging biceps held her as if she were no more than a baby, and she caressed the muscles as he mounted the steps, loving the feel of the power and sinew beneath her hands. When he reached his bedroom he kicked the door closed behind them and slowly slid her down the front of his body. Every bump and bulge making an impression on her oversensitive skin as she skimmed along the contours of his magnificent frame.

He pulled her blouse loose from her jeans and up and over her head in one quick movement, tossing it to land somewhere on the floor as he walked her backwards toward the bed. Her black lace bra followed in a heartbeat and Mataus groaned when her breasts fell free. “So beautiful,” he murmured, as he cupped them briefly in his large hands, thumbing the already engorged nipples.

Mo didn’t want to be left out of the fun, so she peeled his T-shirt from his body, marveling at the broad chest revealed. Running her hands over the rock hard pecs and abs, lightly covered in just the right amount of hair to tickle her palms. She sought out his flat brown nipples, circling them with a fingertip, and they stood at attention, begging for more of her touch.

“Mon Dieu, cher. You make me crazy,” Mataus moaned.

She worked the button on his leather pants, as he undid her jeans. They had reached the edge of the bed and Mataus stopped. He went to his knees before her and removed her boots and socks. Then hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and underwear, he pressed his face to her abdomen as he slowly slid the material down her legs. His hands caressing as they made the journey, his lips kissing the mound of her belly. Tongue dipping into her navel and then sliding across her stomach to outline her hipbone. He nibbled the protrusion and followed it down toward the juncture of her thighs.

Melting with desire, Mo clung to his head to hold herself upright. He tapped one foot and then the other and she stepped from her jeans as he directed. He looked up at her from his place between her legs and his black eyes blazed. Wrapping his arms around her ass he stood and lifted her at the same time. My God the man was strong. He placed her in the center of the huge bed and stepped back, watching her as he worked the leather pants over his massive erection and down the tree trunks of his thighs.

Mo’s mouth watered at the sight of him. Impossibly broad shoulders that barely tapered down his barrel chest, muscle cut arms, with a tribal tattoo surrounding his left bicep. She wanted to lick every scroll of that tattoo, map it with her tongue and teeth. Thick muscled legs, that framed a massive cock, jutting proud and hard toward her. As if demanding her touch.

Mataus crawled between her legs on the bed, pushing her thighs apart as he wedged his mammoth shoulders between her thighs. “I want to taste you,” he said as his tongue swiped her slit from bottom to top and Mo’s hips bucked off the bed. Mataus put an arm across her stomach to hold her in place and began to tease her unmercifully.

He licked and sucked her labia, dipped his tongue inside her, fucking her with it. Then he replaced his tongue with his fingers and moved his talented tongue to her clit, swirling around it in circles. He took the tiny bud into his mouth and flicked it softly in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. Flick, swirl, lick, suck. “Oh my God, Mataus!”

His fingers began to move faster. He found that sweet spot inside her and hit it with each thrust forward, twisting his wrist and working that magical tongue. Mo’s stomach muscles were clenching; her pussy was fluttering. Her hips ground against his face. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she chanted, her orgasm building and building. Then he bit down on her clit and she exploded like that 1964 Mustang taking off at a hundred and fifty miles per hour on a dead man’s curve, she barreled over the edge, freefalling into the abyss and soaring through the air.

When she finally finished shaking, Mataus looked up at her with a satisfied smile on his face as a slow finger still stroked her quaking mound. He crawled up her body and kissed her lips, his mouth still wet from her juices. “Mmm, you taste sweet,” he said.

Mo laughed. “Thank you. I think,” she said feeling herself blush again. What the hell was it with this man and making her blush? She was a soldier for Christ’s sake. He lay at her side and pulled her close, kissing all over her face. Down her neck, behind her ear, over her collarbone, and soon her body was heating again.

She rolled to face him. Running a hand over his hard chest. Loving the feel of his hair on her palms. “Are you ready for round two?” she asked.

“Oh, cher, I am more than ready.”