Vonna Harper - Moon Dance.pdf

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MOON DANCE
Vonna Harper
Chapter One
Light from at least a half dozen small fires flickered in the dark. The nearly full moon cast
silvery-red light on the endless sweep of vineyards surrounding the Rhine River as it flowed
through southern Germany’s small, ancient towns and sweeping countryside.
When she’d driven out of the hamlet of Siebenborn, thirty-something year old Derika Ritter
hadn’t noticed the steep terrain. Now, as she climbed the narrow country road, the vista held
her attention and fed her with energy.
Despite the night’s chill, she kept the windows on her rental down. After all, a Chicago
University Applied Mathematics and Numerical Analysis professor didn’t get to Germany that
often.
Soon enough she’d amass the logical argument necessary to putting an end to Great-Aunt
Helga’s insane plan to buy and, with the help of some building contractor she’d raved about,
renovate a 13 th century castle. In the meantime, what was the harm in soaking up the
mystique of a land, seemingly, caught in the past.
Yes, her cell phone lay beside her, her laptop was on the back seat, and she’d packed her
high tech vibrator, but alone and touched by the moon, she’d already lost touch with the
present, specifically her current grant-financed developmental work engineering
computational tools.
A castle. She was going to spend the next few days in a castle.
The country road wound through what appeared to be individually owned and
maintained vineyards—so much for industrialization. Occasionally her route took her within a
few feet of small brick buildings where she assumed the farmers—was that what grapevine
owners were called?—lived. She’d apologize for invading their privacy if she wasn’t so taken
by the silent, moon-kissed vineyards. The plants appeared ready to put winter’s hibernation
behind them, eager to begin spring’s growth.
“They aren’t the only ones,” she muttered, surprised by the admission. She’d lived through
a Chicago winter without really being aware of what was happening outside, but she shouldn
’t be surprised. After all, teaching three graduate level courses in addition to her independent
work in electronic design automation had kept her chained to her computer through the long,
brisk nights and short, cold days. Even several fierce storms had gone practically unnoticed.
“It’s nearly spring,” she told herself. “On the cusp.”
Sure is. And in spring, a woman’s fancy turns to her pussy—filling it with the requisite
cock. You know, shaking off the cobwebs.
A whiff of woodsmoke distracted her. She wasn’t close to any of the small fires, but the
wind must be blowing smoke in her direction. Were the farmers burning plant trimmings?
 
No, nothing so ordinary. This is some kind of ritual.
Where did that thought come from? You have no use for superstitious nonsense.
Still, instead of punching the gas pedal and concentrating on what she had no doubt
would be a wreck of a castle, she continued at a slow pace and tried to ignore the ache
between her legs. Damn it, why had she started thinking about sex?
So, don’t.
I’m trying , she retorted to whoever she was having an argument with. What was it she’d
told Aunt Helga before reluctantly agreeing to come here, that she simply didn’t have the time
or inclination to play tourist? True, her mother’s side of the family’s roots were in Germany,
but that didn’t mean anything. She’d put up the same argument two years ago when Aunt
Helga had sent her a first class ticket to Frankfurt and practically forced her to join a tour
group. She’d done so because, despite the old lady’s dogmatic nature, she loved Aunt Helga.
Besides, Aunt Helga could afford to spoil her only great niece. Hell, she could afford a castle.
So, would it be so bad? If it makes her happy, let her take title to something older than dirt—
something bound to give new meaning to the term money pit.
The road began a steep assent, and, thighs squeezed together, she concentrated on staying
on pavement—at least she tried to tell herself that’s all she was doing. After a few more turns,
she reached an overlook of sorts. Her vantage point afforded her a breathtaking view of the
broad, slow Rhine, which came to life in the Swiss Alps and eventually emptied into the North
Sea. Moonlight glittered off the river and turned it into something otherworldly. Coupled with
the sweep of close-growing grapevines, the impact was enough to bring tears to her eyes,
something she hadn’t done since—since the other time she’d been to Germany. The
countryside was truly beautiful—at least it was this time of year with new grass pushing
through the ground and the smell of young life in the air. At the thought, her free hand stole
between her legs, and she pressed against the insistent throb.
So move here if you love it so much.
I don’t! I have a life where I live, an exciting and challenging and satisfying career.
So turn around and go back.
I can’t. I promised—
What would you go back to anyway? An upscale, overpriced yuppie apartment, a
filled-to-the-ceiling university office, fucking what’s-his-face when your vibrator doesn’t do the job?
Don’t knock it. It works.
Sure it does.
Brought up short by the sarcastic comment, Derika pulled her hand off her crotch and
resolutely turned her attention back to driving. Germany was not getting to her. It wasn’t!
* * * * *
The castle—as far as she knew, it didn’t have a name—had been built near the top of a low
mountain. Even with the aid of the moon and headlights, her impression of the place was
sketchy at best. The country road had turned from pavement to gravel about a half-mile back,
and she hadn’t noticed anything resembling power poles. As castles went, based on her
limited knowledge of such things, this three-story affair was on the small size, maybe about
four thousand square feet, and surrounded by a stone wall complete with what looked like
guard towers at the corners. She was disappointed not to find a moat, but stuck on a low
 
mountain the way it was, she couldn’t imagine invading armies sneaking up unseen anyway.
Did the people who once lived here ever get lonely? Probably the kings were busy invading
and being invaded, but what about the ladies?
And if their men were killed, what were the rest of their lives like?
The square, stark-looking structure in the center caught her attention. Had anyone ever
been locked in up there? Did the place have a dungeon? Surely it had a central gathering or
meeting room, a kitchen or what had once passed for one, bedrooms for the lord or king or
knight or whoever’s family. What was it made of anyway, some kind of natural stone? Oh
fine, no problem making sure the walls have structural integrity or getting replacement rocks
hauled in. It’d only take a few thousand workmen.
There was a heavy duty pick-up in an area defined by crushed rock near what she
assumed was the front door, and she took it as proof that the so-called builder had gotten here
ahead of her.
Swell. Aunt Helga, this is not what I had in mind when you said you wanted me to set up shop
here instead of at a motel.
“Fine,” she muttered and cut the engine. “The sooner I deal with this joker, the better.”
Don’t be in such a rush to get rid of him. You ought to check out his equipment first, if you get my
drift.
Will you shut up? I don’t boink muscle heads.
Since when?
By the time she’d gotten out of her car, she’d slightly amended her opinion of the driver of
the pickup. What was it Aunt Helga had said, Theodoric, the elderly man she was considering
buying the castle with, had an American great-nephew who was an award-winning building
contractor.
“I trust him completely,” Aunt Helga had reassured her. “If Theodoric has no reservations
about his competence, neither do I.”
Of course you don’t. After all, you’re so in lust with Theodoric you can’t see beyond that. Never
mind that the old fart might be playing you for a sucker. What if he’s a gold-digger, or a scam artist?
If he was, Derika promised herself, she’d send the old fart packing along with his shirt-tail
relative or whoever this so-called award winning builder was. Aunt Helga might be blind to
reality, but she certainly wasn’t. She dealt with numbers, facts. If it couldn’t be calculated, she
had no use for it.
Bolstered by the unnecessary reminder, she stepped into an arched passageway in the
outer wall. She found herself in a yard of some kind, maybe designed to keep horses and other
livestock, although what the heck did she know? Straight ahead was the three-story structure.
For a moment, she felt swamped by ancient impressions, sounds even. Hundreds of years ago,
this place had throbbed with life. Could the people have left something of themselves behind?
A little unnerved, she looked around for the front door but didn’t find anything resembling
one. Instead, she finally determined that the only way into the structure was via some outside
stairs. Climbing them, she found herself at a wooden door set in another arched doorway.
Wondering what the hell she was doing, she reached for the large iron bar holding the door in
place. She had to use both hands to lift the bar from the metal bracing and slide it back.
The moment she did, the door swung a few inches toward her. So much for security. She
deliberately hadn’t knocked because she wanted Mr. Pickup to have the message that she had
every right to be here. Cussing herself for not having a flashlight, she started down a hall, of
sorts, with a high ceiling. Light flickered in the distance.
 
Her shoes made a soft clicking sound on what might be stone flooring. For someone who
didn’t think she had much of an imagination, she easily pictured knights and ladies waiting
for a banquet and entertainment to begin. There’d be music and drink, flirting and maybe
some not too discreet groping. Then the lord of the manor or feudal lord or whatever he was
would appear and—
No, not a powerful landowner, but not bad. Not bad by far.
Feeling as if she’d been gut-punched, Derika sagged against the wall and stared. She was
looking at what had to be the main room—they could put a bowling alley in here—but she
barely noticed the long stone dining table and chairs, a raised area with a couple of massive
wooden chairs on it, the benches around the sides, the wall-hung metal candle holders. She
gave little thought to several modern oil lamps set on the dining table.
What did any of that matter? She’d spotted him.
The man crouched before a huge fireplace near the raised sitting area, feeding the flames.
His back was to her, but she didn’t mind not seeing his face yet, not at all. Her mouth went
dry. In contrast, her errant pussy flooded with wet heat. She felt weak and alive at the same
time.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. How dare he challenge her with that broad and muscled naked
back, the tight, dare-you-to-touch-it ass encased in tight, faded jeans? Jeans? Why couldn’t he
be dressed in limp slacks like her fellow staff members or lost in the folds of sweat pants like
Buddy always wore. Oh no, he had to have a rear end made for jeans, hard thighs capable of
splitting the sturdy fabric. And a back, shoulders, and arms that screamed of physical labor.
It wasn’t fair! He was primitive man, animal man, blue-collar man minus the collar.
As if that wasn’t enough, he needed a haircut. Even with his back to her, she had no doubt
his hairline wasn’t receding; there wouldn’t be any gray in that coal black mane.
Her fingers itched—no, they burned—to explore the considerable bulge between his legs
she knew she’d see the moment he turned around.
Swell! The man now poking a couple of logs against the back of the fireplace as if he’d
been doing it all his life had her hot and bothered.
“Seen enough?” he asked as he stood and turned toward her.
Chapter Two
Ritter Reinhard managed to keep a kiss-my-ass expression on his face, but it wasn’t easy.
When he’d heard light footsteps a moment ago, he figured his expected, if unwanted, guest
had arrived. Fine, let the games begin, he’d thought.
Uncle Theodoric had said Helga’s great-niece was some kind of university professor. As a
result, he’d expected someone a hell of a lot older, thicker, plainer. Instead, as if things weren’t
complicated enough already, he was going to have to deal with a broad who reminded him of
how long it had been since he’d fucked and been fucked.
“Ms. Huber, I presume,” he said.
“And you must be Mr. Reinhard.”
“So far we’re batting a thousand.” Noting her glance at his cock, he reassessed his earlier
impression of who he’d be up against. The lady might be an academic complete with one of
those short, sophisticated hairstyles designed to impress other women who gave a damn about
such things, but she was also aware of the opposite sex. He’d be a fool not to use that to his
 
advantage. “I didn’t know when you’d show up,” he said. “Certainly not in the middle of the
night.”
“It’s hardly the middle of the night. Besides, what concern is it of yours when I arrive?”
Ah, a spitfire. He loved bedding a hot-blooded woman. Wondering how long it would take
him to get his cock up her cunt, he stepped to one side of the blazing fire. “Come warm
yourself,” he encouraged. “It’s getting cold out there.”
Her look plainly said she knew he was challenging her to get close. To her credit, she took
the bait. Despite his vow not to let her get the upper hand, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her
well-rounded hips and even more rounded breasts as she walked toward him. She was shorter
than he liked—long-legged broads had more muscle to wrap around his, but he couldn’t
complain about the package.
Neither was he immune to the space she created between her legs with every step. She had
on what he thought was called a shirtwaist blouse tucked into expensive looking, form-kissing
slacks. The blouse was modestly buttoned—or it would have been if her breasts weren’t so
large they caused the buttons to strain. It wouldn’t take much to set them free, not much at all.
And if she hadn’t wanted men to notice the merchandise, she would have hidden it better. So
what was she, a tease? Maybe. The label didn’t quite fit.
“How long have you been here?” she asked as she held out long, slender fingers to catch
the fire’s heat.
“If you want a minute accounting, I can’t give it. I also don’t think it matters.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, big hazel eyes narrowing. “It was simply a question.
No need to get defensive, Mr. Reinhard.”
Not tonight, unfortunately. Fucking Ms. Huber is going to take time. But then, there’s the thrill of
the hunt, the chase, the conquest.
“Defensive?” He shrugged. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“And I don’t know you well enough to judge the validity of your statement. I’m simply
attempting to get an idea of how much of an advantage you have over me.” She turned her
back to the fire and placed her hands behind her beg-to-be-fondled ass.
“Advantage?” he questioned to keep himself from gaping at what her stance was doing to
her beleaguered buttons. “An interesting term. You’re making it sound as if this is a
competition.”
“We don’t know yet, do we? But there’s a strong possibility.”
There it was, the ground rules laid out. On the brink of going for the jugular and
demanding to know whether she supported her aunt’s offer to team up with his beloved Uncle
Theo in his plan to turn near-rubble into a showplace, he decided not to risk turning into
adversaries so early in the game. Determined not to let her get to him in a physical way, he
turned his back on her. Earlier, he’d taken advantage of the loose mortar and removed a
couple of the ancient glazed windows in an attempt to get rid of some of the mustiness.
Although the openings cut down on the fireplace’s effectiveness, it was worth it.
Faint music—something resembling a drumbeat—started up down the hill, capturing his
attention. Derika must have heard it too because she’d cocked her head to one side. The
straight line of her mouth softened, and her lips parted. He swore she’d begun to sway in time
with the barely-discernible sound.
“What’s that?” she asked, whispered really.
“I’m not sure. I heard it last night—not long after I arrived.”
 

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