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up thirteen women, one by one, and raped half of them?"
    She'd shocked the knife-fighter out of his stillness.
    "Before poisoning them all with strychnine, one after the other—and drinking champagne while he watched them die? Ten to twenty minutes each of agonizing pain, while the woman's every muscle separately locked into rigor mortis.
¡Chingado
!" The scarred brute looked angry enough to take revenge for their deaths here and now.
    The scarred brute grabbed for Georges' throat, moving faster than a swinging scythe.
    Despite himself, Georges flinched, as he never had in Angola.
    "Don't touch him!" the lady snapped, holding up her hand. "You can't have him, since I've already taken hold of him."
    "He should be executed for murder, Celeste!" The big man's fingers tensed again. "You cannot be so reckless as to claim somebody like him."
    "A most creative and sadistic killer,
oui
?" she purred and scraped her teeth over Georges's hand. A thin line of crimson sprang up in response, as if begging for her.
    She began to lick him delicately, her tongue digging at him, delving into his sweat and his flesh, making him want to give more. Anything, everything.
    He moaned softly, warmth building wherever she touched. Joy flickered over his skin and danced through his blood.
    Her fingers fondled his hip, despite the reeking river bottom mud which enveloped him. None of the partners he'd sought oblivion with, had ever cherished him like that.
    He didn't know everything involved but if it included her and not Angola's Death Row, he'd agree in a heartbeat.
    "Celeste!" the big man snapped.
    She stopped slowly, even reluctantly, and looked up.
    "Celeste, he's a murderer," the big man warned.
    She shrugged. "But he'll be
my
murderer."
    Horror swept over the other's face and Georges hid his grin, enjoying his strengthening heartbeat, and watched his lady trample society's conventions.
    "The perfect weapon, since he has no morals to stop him from doing exactly what I want." Celeste glanced back at him. "Isn't that right,
mon brave
?"
    Do anything she wanted, in exchange for being her idea of perfection? His cock swelled, flaunting his masculine triumph. "Oh yes," he whispered.
    Her tongue started sweeping over his wrist again, melding her saliva with his blood, driving Georges slowly insane. He made a rude gesture at the big blond, who had to live around a moralizing bastard.
    The other flushed and took a step forward, reaching for his weapon. An abrupt gesture from his master halted him.
    "I can't take him away from you, Celeste, since you've already sealed your claim by drinking his blood," the senior man warned, his deep voice rumbling through the saloon and making the guards even more alert. "But I ask you to think again before you give him El Abrazo."
    "Oh, I know exactly what will happen, Don Rafael." She smiled blissfully, kissed her fingertips, and brushed them against the bruise on Georges's temple.
    His eyes turned to slits in pleasure at her open claim.
    The blond all but hissed.
    "He'll be the best alferez mayor in North America."
    Whatever that meant, he'd do it for her, better than any other man in the world.

----
Chapter Four

     
    SOUTH WEST TEXAS, FIFTY MILES FROM THE MEXICAN BORDER, APRIL, PRESENT DAY
     
    Steve Reynolds pulled her Expedition to a stop, flicked her turn signal on, and waited patiently for a count of three. She was well aware nobody could see the black beast at this time of night, even under a nearly full moon. She might not be able to bake a cake or clean candle wax from a tablecloth, but she could drive a cop car damn well. When no other vehicles passed by, she decorously turned left onto Avenida dos Lagartos and headed back to Gilbert's Crossing.
    The state road led through nameless mountains, following an ancient riverbed filled with scattered boulders and sand. Limestone bluffs towered overhead, with century plants' tall spikes protruding like sentries. Almost two centuries ago, her ancestors had served