Cutter was relishing the way Frost’s jaw muscle was working tightly. He knew he’d touched a nerve, but men like Frost had to know the score upfront. You could never let them have the upper hand. “Frost, let’s get one thing clear before we go any further here.” Cutter stepped toward the man casually, making sure to move slow enough that it not be perceived as a threat, but still recognized as a challenge. “I might not be the biggest badass in this town … but I’m for damned sure the baddest ass in this town.”
“Oh?” Frost raised his chin slightly, the smile back now. In it was an ever-so-subtle acceptance of that challenge, the gauntlet thrown down. “You bring your boxcutter?”
“Whew!” A female voice cut through the air, startling everyone. So heavy had been the tension that even Frost and Cutter jumped at the sound. Loud, exaggerated hand-clapping followed. They both quickly turned … and stared.
The blonde leaning against the door watching their exchange was akin to a goddess. Both had seen more than their share of women, organic and artificial, and this one had to rank at the top on both men’s lists.
“Lord haaave mercy! All this testosterone!” The Scarlett O’Hara drawl rang like a bell through the cavernous mansion. “You boys flappin’ around in here like two roosters in a pit ‘bout got me worked up enough to slide across this here marble floor!”
“Gentleman,” Senator Shelby Denton held out his hand toward the statuesque newcomer, “may I introduce to you my lovely bride, Cherry.”
She took in the awe-struck group of men who stood gawking, mouths agape, as if she were a queen holding court. That men still stood dumb-founded in her presence no longer flattered her. Now, it was an insult if they weren’t. The fact that none had greeted her in customary politeness bothered her none in the least. Few men were able to keep their manners when she walked into a room. She wouldn’t have it any other way. The days of youth were behind her, and one day she wouldn’t turn heads anymore. With science continually increasing the lifespan of humans, sixty might be the new forty, but she damned sure wasn’t in any hurry to get there. Besides, increased longevity and immortality were still not the same. Behind the façade of a right-wing, conservative Christian senator’s wife, a very different Cherry Denton moved in the shadows.
A devout hedonist, she was devoted entirely to the mantra “If it looks good, try it. If it feels good, do it … until something better comes along.” Bisexual and polyamorous, neither she nor her husband felt monogamy was relevant in the modern world. It was a dated puritanical custom that kept one from experiencing their full potential. It was just sex, after all, a pleasure of the flesh. As long as they were still very much in love with each other, that was the important thing. Cherry Denton was a woman who made every day count, whether it be gourmet chocolates, a new diamond, or a hot young boy or girl pleasuring her seemingly ageless body. Each indulgence, no matter how trivial or how momentous, was savored with the same appreciation.
On this day, a simple, white blouse accentuated her ample cleavage, surgically enhanced just enough not to be gaudy. Mostly, those pretty gals were just good genes and what God had given her … and she used it all to her advantage. She’d learned a long time ago the power of that one button left undone and the effect that little extra peek of boob had on men. A man could rarely do two things at one time … and never could he stare at a tit and think decisively.
A form-fitting, black skirt that stopped about mid-thigh emphasized a pair of long, shapely, tan legs. Their muscular build was a testament to her years in gymnastics. In a pair of black high heels, she towered well over six feet. At forty-six, the former Miss Rocket City was still within ten pounds of what she had weighed back in her late teens and early twenties when she was competing for crowns and titles.
Her crystal-blue eyes, bordered by black liner and long, full lashes, were like pools of cold, clear water that made a man instantly thirsty. Her nose was slim and straight, what people would call a perfect Greek. Her lips were full, but not pouty like one of those New York models. When she wasn’t talking, they always seemed just slightly apart, in a sensual way, as if she were on the verge of whispering something naughty in your ear. When she smiled, those beautiful, white teeth were brilliant, like flipping on a light in a darkened room. Her magnificent, flowing locks of dirty-blonde hair, streaked with subtle shades of caramel and rose, was worn thick and high and cascaded down her back to her shoulder blades. In earlier centuries, people had called it “big hair,” and at times, it’d even been considered tacky and slutty. Yet she wore it proudly, almost like a crown or halo. Through the years, she’d tried shorter, thinner, and more conservative styles. But none of those “soccer mom” cuts had ever succeeded in bringing out the unique combination of sexuality and power that she enjoyed radiating.
Much like Cutter, Cherry Denton had been a product of humbler beginnings. A country girl from the tiny hamlet of Goose Spit atop Sand Mountain, she grew up dirt poor, the youngest of five kids. Her father, Tom Gilbert, was a widower, who’d lost his wife during Cherry’s childbirth. Overwhelmed and ill-prepared to raise a family by himself, he struggled to make ends meet and never seemed to have enough love or time for such a large brood of offspring. Maybe it was because he spent most of his time drinking too much, lamenting the loss of his wife and his sorry lot in life. An unskilled laborer at a poultry processing plant, he had
