...Charles stood in front of his full-length mirror and struck a pose. His eyes narrowed as he glared at his opponents. He was John Wayne facing off a pack of desperados.

“Do you feel lucky?” he drawled, raising one eyebrow.

No, wait. That was Clint Eastwood.

He shrugged, slapped his hand to the holster, and pulled the toy pistol. It tumbled out of his hand, did a few summersaults, and fell to the floor. He sighed, bent, and retrieved it. He put it back in the holster and tried it again, this time a bit slower.

He slapped leather and the gun slid out, still in his hand.

Bang!

Bang! Bang!

Got ’em right between the eyes.

He raised the gun barrel to his lips and blew away imagined smoke, then shoved it back into the holster.

“No one accuses me of cheating at poker. No one.” He pushed the cowboy hat back on his head and gave a sharp nod.

Charles laughed. He made a pretty good cowboy, if he did say so himself.

He studied his look in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved in two days, giving the stubble on his chin a rough, yet sexy look.

Damn, he loved the leather chaps. They wrapped his legs like a pair of gloves, leaving just the crotch of his jeans exposed. His gaze focused on the impression of his semi-hard cock.

Okay, he got off on dressing up as a cowboy. It had been his fantasy forever.

“Guilty as charged, Sheriff.”

Now he just had to decide whether to wear a shirt under the vest, or go without one. He peeled off the vest and his shirt, then slipped back into the vest.

Definitely without.

The vest gave a sexy glimpse of his smooth chest, hard pecs, and with the low rider jeans and the chaps, a few hairless inches of skin showed below his navel. Thank God he had an innie and not an outie and thank God he’d been faithful about going to the gym and working out.

Of course, if he’d been a real cowboy, his muscles would have been honed by hard work, chasing cattle, bustin’ broncs, and riding the range, not lifting free weights and running on a treadmill.

Forget the range; he wanted to ride his Pocahontas.

He rubbed his hand over his jeans and the touch merely made him harder.

God, he’d been sporting a boner ever since meeting the guy in the costume shop yesterday. And in a few hours, if Charles’s plan went well, he’d get the chance to do that very thing.

He made a note to thank Francis for inviting him. Charles had only met the hotel owner a few months ago when he’d gone there to talk him into ordering wine from his small distributing company, but Francis had been so open and friendly, Charles had taken to dropping by whenever he’d been in the Quarter.

Now he wondered how Pocahontas knew Francis. An employee maybe? Another casual acquaintance?

Oh, hell. What if he were Francis’s lover?

Now there was a faux pas, if ever he’d seen one.

He’d have to play it safe until he found out what their relationship was, or he’d risk putting his business with Francis in jeopardy.