Houston, Texas -- 2000

"I've always wanted to do it wearing nothing but a bad attitude and a pair of spurs."

"Yes, yes," giggled the forty-something woman, who sat up excitedly and placed her hand on the leg of the imposing man beside her. "It's been a fantasy of ours for a very long time."

"Then you've come to the right place." Elizabeth Joanna Carlton smiled across the marble desktop at her newest clients, the fifty-year-old vice president for Laramie Oil and his attractive wife. "Fantasies are my business."

"That's why we came to you. Esther and Roger had such fun with their sheikh-harem girl fantasy. Why, she told me you even had a trio of real eunuchs standing guard outside the tent so they wouldn't be disturbed."

"I do work hard at authenticity." It was true, she did pride herself on her dedication to reproducing everything accurately in her work, and that couldn't have been done if she hadn't also had some great connections. Tom, Dom and Melvin were a trio of part-time sumo wrestlers-cum-wannabe actors who performed at a Japanese dinner theater in downtown Houston. While she seriously doubted they were eunuchs in reality -- Dom had triplet boys -- they put on one hell of a show. Her clients had been more than satisfied.

That was the key. Satisfying the people who came to It's Only Make Believe by bringing their ultimate fantasies to life.

As the owner and operator of Houston's only "romantic catering" company, Elizabeth had coordinated everything from quaint candlelit dinners to much more challenging fantasies, such as that of the lawyer who fancied herself Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and her husband a sexy, flirty Tin Man.

She'd had to have his suit custom-made by a costume company that specialized in body armor. The man had been covered in metal from his neck to his feet. Elizabeth still hadn't figured out how he'd... How they'd... How. They'd asked for no special attachments or trap doors. The suit had been fashioned to copy the original, with no room for any surprises popping up or out.

She fought down a wave of heat and forced the thought aside. She didn't worry herself with those hows. Her job was simply to scout out the appropriate locations and set up the scenarios down to the smallest detail -- from costumes to props to food. It was up to her clients and their significant others to worry about the rest.

"Big spurs," the man drawled. "I want the biggest pair you can find."

"Now, now, honey. They don't have to be that big." His wife patted his arm. "You know by now that size isn't important to me. I don't care if you've got the teeniest, tiniest spur in the saloon. I still love you. Not that yours would be the tiniest. It's just a little smaller--"

"Next week," Elizabeth cut in, eager to steer the conversation onto safer ground. The last thing, the very last thing she wanted was to discuss a man's "spur." Especially since it had been so long since she'd actually seen one, she wasn't sure she even remembered what it looked like.

There has to be more to life. The thought filled her along with a sense of restlessness. Of need.

She drew in a deep breath and got to her feet. "I'll have my assistant call you with all the details first thing Monday."

"We know you'll do a wonderful job." The man extended his hand as he stood. "We've heard so much about you, and all of it good. Now we see why." He handed her a book then. "I've been looking at this. Maybe it'll give you an idea of what we're hoping for. And as for being discreet, thank you."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said.

A few minutes later, after they had gone, she sat at her desk and stared at the large advance check Mr. Laramie had left.

"That good, huh?" Jenna Walters, Elizabeth's personal assistant and Spice Girl wannabe, walked into the room wearing blue-jean cut-off shorts, a halter top and black glitter platform shoes. She had blond shoulder-length hair and enough powder-blue eye shadow to make-up an entire Vegas chorus line for a month.

Elizabeth handed Jenna the check. "This is the reason I gave up traditional weddings and Bar-mitzvahs." She made more off one fantasy than from ten weddings combined. Also, the competition was practically nonexistent, and she didn't have to advertise or offer specials. Her business came from word-of-mouth among a small but elite group of people who could afford her services.

It was all about money. This job was all about business.

That's what she told herself, but deep down she actually liked what she did for a living. When she was honest with herself, she knew that by setting up someone else's fantasy she could experience, vicariously, a few of her own.

"What are we doing this time?"

"Saloon girl and gunslinger."

"Mmm... a cowboy. My personal favorite."

An image rushed through Elizabeth's mind, that of her own private fantasy man. A cowboy. A wild and wicked and dangerous cowboy.

"I want you..." his deep voice whispered in her head and sent a shiver through her. It was a voice she'd heard too many times to count since she was a teenager, and it was always the same. Ever since she'd had her first cowboy fantasy, thanks to Michael Landon and all those Bonanza reruns her brothers had watched. Of course, her fantasy cowboy was better looking than Michael Landon. Hotter. Sexier.

"...cowboy once. But he wasn't a real cowboy. Just one of those weekend, suburban bozos with the designer jeans and the oversized belt buckle from Midnight Cowboy." Jenna's voice pushed past Elizabeth's thoughts and drew her back to the present. "I always wanted to try the real thing."

"You and at least forty percent of women everywhere, according to Isabella X." Isabella X was the leading guru on fantasies and widely known for her first book, The Naughty Nine. The book described the nine core scenarios that fuel the sexual fantasies of women and men alike, and it had quickly become Elizabeth's bible. While she didn't participate directly in the action, the more she knew about what motivated her clients' desires, the better job she could do setting them up. "She gave a listing at the back of her last book of women's favorite fantasy types. Cowboys have the top honor."

"And where does this gunslinger-saloon girl fantasy fit into the Naughty Nine?"

"I think what the Laramies are really after is number eight -- sex for pay."

"They might also be interested in number four -- being seduced by a faceless stranger. That is, if Mr. Laramie keeps his hat on and wears a bandanna tied around his face." The third-year psych major was quick, and she kept up with her reading, which was why Elizabeth had hired her in the first place. That and the fact that the girl brought a breath of fresh air into the office. Elizabeth's own ultra-conservative and appearance-oriented taste felt somehow wrong considering her profession.

Jenna's eyes twinkled. "So who's playing the saloon girl? The mister or the missus?"

"You're a riot. Did I see you on Leno last night?"

"It was Def Comedy Jam, and I'm totally serious. Which one?"

"The mister."

"That's what they all say. But behind closed doors..."

A quick visual of Mr. Laramie in a corset pushed into her thoughts before she shoved it back out and reached for her notes. "Get a listing of old houses in the area and let's get some costume samples today--"

"It's the day before Thanksgiving."

"I want to narrow down some sites before I leave. That way after I get back from Cherryville on Friday, I can scout out a few--"

"Actually," Jenna cut in, "I forgot to tell you. Your father called and said there'll be a lot of press at the dinner. He said it would be too crowded for anyone to really have a good time and it would be better if you stayed in Houston until things calmed down. Then the two of you can sit down and have a quiet, peaceful, traditional Thanksgiving later. Without all the hoopla to unsettle the digestive system."

Elizabeth eyed her young assistant. "Those were his exact words?"

"Of course." Another penetrating look from Elizabeth, and Jenna folded. "Okay, he might have said something like 'tell her to stay home.' " She mimicked Walter Carlton's short-clipped monotone. " 'The last thing I need right now is the press being reminded of what you two do for a living. She can come for Christmas. Maybe. I'll call.' "

The words sank in and Elizabeth blinked against the sudden burning at the backs of her eyes. Which was crazy. It wasn't as if she'd actually counted on having a traditional holiday at home. She never counted on any holidays because they were major publicity opportunities. They were a chance for the voters of Texas to peek into the life of conservative Walt Carlton, his lovely wife of thirty-eight years and their five lovely children.

Well, four lovely children these days. It seemed she no longer counted.

"I can't believe I told you. I'm too honest for my own good."

"That's okay."

"And I really can't believe he's doing this to you the day before Thanksgiving," Jenna said. "What a creep." Count on Jenna, whose heart was as big as her teased blond hair, to be outraged on Elizabeth's behalf.

"He's not a creep. He's just careful." And distant, but then she'd grown accustomed to that a long time ago. "It's no big deal. I'm used to it." Ten years and she could count on her hand the number of times she'd been back to Cherryville, to her home and family. "These things fall through all the time. I wasn't even really planning on going. I haven't even packed." She forced aside the disappointment and reached for the large tome the Laramies had left her. It was a history book: Famous Gunslingers of the Wild, Wild West. She'd have to look it over.

"It's still a rotten thing to do. Nobody should have to spend Thanksgiving alone."

"A few people have to make sacrifices for the good of the many." She repeated the phrase she'd heard so many times during her childhood, like when she'd asked to get her ears pierced. Or when she'd begged her mother for a hot pink mini-skirt. Or when she'd asked to go on her first date. The answer had always been the same.

"It isn't always about what we want, dear. This family has an image to uphold."

An image. That was what her parents had wanted her to be. A perfect, pretty little picture. And living life -- really living it -- wasn't part of the equation.

"Maybe so, but you're not the one running for governor. You shouldn't have to sacrifice so much."

"I might as well be the one running. For my father, I'm just a reflection on his 'family values' and tomorrow's just another press opportunity."

"Turkey day, a press opportunity? That man has his priorities messed up. Why, my tastebuds have been watering for weeks. I've got my day all planned out. We're eating at noon. Then I'm going to watch Pretty Woman and let everything digest. By the time Richard climbs to the top of the fire escape, I'll be ready for pie and Shakespeare in Love. By the time that's done, I'll be ready for another round with the turkey and Message in a Bottle. You could join me. It'll just be me and Butch and Harold."

Butch was Jenna's father and at seventy-two, probably the oldest living Harley rider. Harold was her pride and joy, a pit bull. "Come on," she said. "It'll be fun."

"I would, but I shouldn't take the time off. We're busy, right? It's really for the best that I won't be going anywhere."

"You're just afraid my dad will want to take you for another ride like on Easter. I swear, I'll hide his starter plug."

"It's not that."

"You don't want to sit through Easy Rider three times like we did on the Fourth of July. Don't worry. I'll hide the videotape."

"It's not that."

"I swear, no listening to Springsteen's Born to Run CD five times like we did on Labor Day."

"No, it's not that, either. I really need to get a jumpstart on the Watsons' Anthony and Cleopatra fantasy."

"That takes two hours to plan and I've already booked the resort."

"And then there's the Carrs' Tarzan and Jane fantasy," Elizabeth pointed out. "I still haven't found costumes."

"You sew together a few fig leaves. That's a no-brainer."

"Tarzan wears a loincloth. It's Adam and Eve who were in fig leaves. And I really appreciate the offer, but I'd rather work."

Jenna gave her a knowing look. "You'd rather hide. Because then you don't have to see how alone and miserable you are."

"I'm not alone and miserable." At Jenna's knowing look, she added, "Okay, so I'm alone. But I'm not miserable. I just haven't found the right guy."

"You're not going to find any guy if all you do is work. You need to socialize."

"By sitting around your house smelling turkey all day?"

"There aren't any hot men there," Jenna conceded. "But turkey is almost as good. And pie definitely gives the same rush as a really great kiss. And don't even get me started on chocolate mousse. I'll give you one word -- ecstasy." At Elizabeth's look, Jenna shrugged. "All right. What can I say? I haven't exactly been burning the midnight oil with any hotties myself." She blew out a breath. "Why am I badgering you? I need to get my own social life."

"And I really need to work." Her job was distracting, consuming, and fun -- the only fun Elizabeth could allow herself.

"Maybe I'll take some hot, sexy pictures and get myself a web page." Her assistant contemplated the thought for another moment. "We could even do it together. I could wear my zebra-skin thong and we could get a leopard print for you and--"

"Don't even think it. I like to keep a low profile, remember? Leopard definitely screams 'over the top.' "

"So you say. I bet you're just a wild woman waiting to be set free."

Amen. "I'm a busy woman waiting to get home, and just the thought of a thong makes me uncomfortable. Give me a pair of nice, conservative granny panties any day."

Jenna eyed her for a long moment. "Okay," she finally said, but you know where I live if you change your mind."

"Thanks. Now, for work; what do we have for the Laramies?"

Jenna slid on her eyeglasses and leafed through a file. "For a gunfighter and saloon-girl routine? Five prospects. An old farm near Corpus Christi that once doubled as a house of ill-repute. A brownstone in downtown Houston that used to be the Black Dog saloon way back when -- lots of ill repute going on there, or so the books say. Two old saloon sites between here and Galveston. And this." She waved a prospect sheet as if she held a winning lottery ticket.

Elizabeth grabbed the paper and stared at the property name. "The Red Parlour Room? What is that?"

"Only the most notorious bordello ever to grace the Galveston waterfront. The place is legendary."

She studied the property listing. "It's still standing?"

"For the time being. The owner wants to tear it down, but the city wants to preserve it. It's collecting dust right now, and available for lease at the right price. And if we got it, we could use it for all the gunslinger fantasies we do. After it's been fixed up a bit, of course."

"I'll go there first thing in the morning."

Jenna paused in the doorway. "I'm really sorry about your father."

"So am I."

She was sorry, but not surprised. Since she'd moved her company from Cherryville to Houston eight years ago and invented the unique It's Only Make Believe, she'd become a liability to her family. An embarrassment. And on the few occasions she saw her father, he never failed to remind her of the ten-percent plunge he'd taken in the polls when the press had done a story on it.

The uproar over the staunchly conservative Mayor Carlton's daughter catering for other people's fantasies had only recently died down, thanks to Elizabeth's professionalism and the fact that personally, she was still every bit as prim and proper as ever.

She sighed. Her innocent nature was a truth she'd accepted would never change; she'd had her chance the night of her senior prom when she'd been voted Cherryville High's Most Likely to Die a Virgin, and at the party that had followed. She'd had her chance to prove everyone wrong, and she'd blown it.

For her father, she reminded herself.

She'd finally come to terms with the fact that there would be no hot and hunky men in her future. No acting on impulses or giving in to the lust burning in her veins. She rarely dated, and when she did, she leaned toward the men of whom her father would have approved. Men who were smart. Conservative. Clean-cut. Appropriate.

Boring.

The men she dated would never stir her to a grand passion, true, but her father was in the big leagues now, making a play for governor. The last thing Elizabeth wanted was to hurt his chances by taking up with a wild man, even though that was what she secretly longed for -- a man like the one who starred in her own most private fantasies.

She grabbed the real estate listings and her briefcase. After a quick stop for dinner, she was headed home to unpack her suitcase and do a little research.

Everything about him screamed SEX.

From the way he looked -- his tight-fitting black pants were tucked into black cowboy boots, and his upper body was bare and broad and muscular beneath a black fringed vest -- to the way he looked. His gaze was dark and piercing and wild beneath the low brim of a black cowboy hat.

Her heart pounded and the blood rushed through her veins in anticipation of what would come next. What always came next.

He filled her line of vision as he stepped closer. His piercing stare caught and held hers. His nostrils flared as he seemed to catch her scent and drink it in. His sensuous lips tilted into a grin. A few steps and he reached her. The aroma of warm male and leather stole through her senses. Her nipples pebbled, her thighs itched, and desire rushed through her, hot and molten and greedy.

She wanted him.

And more important, he wanted her. He always wanted her.

He leaned toward her and she knew he was about to whisper the same sexy words that always melted her faster than a scoop of ice cream on hot Texas pavement. His lips parted--

"Say, lady, you want chili on your fries, or just cheese?"

The voice, impatient with a nasal twang, shattered her fantasy and drew her back to the present, to the busy interior of Buffalo Bill's Burger Barn and the pseudo-cowboy waiter leaning over her. She'd incorporated him into her lustful musings.

He was every bit as handsome up close, and her left eye gave a quick twitch -- an annoying trait that happened whenever she found herself faced with a good-looking man -- but the voice, not to mention the Born to Boff tattoo that peeked past his vest when he reached into his back pocket for his order pad, totally blew the effect. This was not her dark and exciting cowboy. This was no fantasy. Her eye stopped twitching.

"Which'll it be, lady?"

Tall, Dark and Twangy spoke again, and she found herself staring into his eyes. They were watery blue, not nearly the intense color she'd imagined a few moments ago. She sent up another silent prayer of thanks. The farther away he was from her real fantasy man, from the blue-eyed cowboy who haunted her most private erotic thoughts, the easier it was to calm her beating heart and ignore the urge to rip off her clothes and beg for him to show her a good time. All she'd want would be a few exciting memories.

That was what Elizabeth secretly thirsted for: excitement. She was so tired of her boring life, of always living up to everyone's expectations, of always, always doing the right thing. Just once, she'd love to say to hell with everything. To cut loose. To really live.

Just once.

"So what'll it be, lady? What do you want?"

A cowboy. A wild, wicked, hunky cowboy.

"The chili and cheese, please." Oh, well. Old habits were hard to break, and Elizabeth had been walking the straight and narrow for much too long to detour now. And she didn't think she could order a cowboy, anyhow.

Besides, she loved her father, even if he didn't seem to return her affection, and this guy wasn't anywhere near worth disappointing him for. He wasn't her fantasy man.

No, her dream man only came out at night. When the lights were low and the doors were locked and the world was shut out, and Elizabeth could actually be herself.

A few people have to make sacrifices....

Her father's words echoed through her head, shattering her thoughts and drawing her back to the present, to the nearly empty restaurant and the sign hanging in the window.

WE WILL BE CLOSED ON THANKSGIVING.

She sniffled and blinked against sudden tears. She wouldn't cry over this. She was working, darn it, and tomorrow was just another day.

It was the worst day of her life.

A flat tire. Three missed turns. An undercooked burger at Sloppy's Slab of Beef off Highway 45 -- the only place she'd found open on Thanksgiving -- and now this. The Red Parlour Room.

She stared at the boarded-up building through her windshield. She'd wanted old, but old and restored. This place looked as if it hadn't been touched in a hundred years. Now, if Mr. and Mrs. Laramie had wanted a handyman fixer-upper fantasy, this would have been their dream. As it was, it would never do.

At the same time, she hadn't driven an hour and a half just to turn around and head back. She was here, and so was the realtor, an impatient man who was pacing back and forth in front of the building. She might as well take a look. She got out of her car.

"Miss Carlton." The heavy-set man greeted her with a smile as she walked to the front door.

"It's Elizabeth, and I can't thank you enough for meeting me this morning. I hate to inconvenience you like this--"

"No problem. I'm here to serve." He unlocked the door and practically pushed her inside. "You just take your time." Seconds ticked by as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, and she took in the cobweb-covered chandelier, the rotting red drapes spanning from wall to wall.

"So? What do you think?" he asked.

Old. Decrepit. It would take far too much to set up Mr. and Mrs. Laramie's fantasy in a place like--

The thought stalled as her attention shifted to the large stage at the head of the room. It was T-shaped, its flat top spanning from corner to corner, and its main body pushing out into the room, extending into what had once been a sea of tables. The floor was bare with the exception of a thick layer of silver dust that caught the shafts of light filtering in through partially boarded-up windows.

"So?" he prodded. "Do we have a deal?"

Hardly. The word was there on the tip of her tongue, but instead, she heard herself saying, "I'd like to look around first. Maybe go upstairs. Can I walk upstairs?"

"It's old, but solid." The realtor stomped his foot for emphasis. Boards creaked and cracked beneath his weight and he gave her a sheepish smile. "For the most part. Just step softly and follow me." He led her in a brisk walk toward the staircase and a large, fading portrait of a woman wearing nothing but bright red feathers, a red-jeweled garter and a smile.

"Sinful Sinclair," the man told her. "A stripper who used to dance here way back around the turn of the century."

But Elizabeth already knew who the woman was. There'd been numerous passages about her in the Laramies' book. Miss Sinful had had many, many male friends, including two legendary gunslingers who'd actually gotten into a shootout over her.

She stopped and eyed the portrait. The woman wasn't a knockout by any means, but there was something about her. Her challenging eyes, her knowing smile, the high thrust of her breasts and her I-am-woman-and-damned proud-of-it pose. A pang of longing shot through Elizabeth.

Here was a woman who'd really lived life.

"...still the original furnishings upstairs." The realtor's voice reminded her where she was. "Nobody's touched much of anything here. For awhile, the Galveston Historical Society wanted to preserve it, but the owners wanted to sell the lot. Then the owner died and the kids started fighting over it. There's been lots of legal mumbo jumbo that has tied up everything in court, so the place looks pretty much the same as it did way back then. With the exception of some dust and aging."

"Lots of aging."

"Nothing a good cleaning couldn't fix. This way." The man tapped an impatient rhythm on the banister.

"If you're in a hurry, I can look around by myself."

"Hurry?" He looked perplexed for a moment, then he seemed to notice his hand. His fingers clamped tight. He gave an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. It's the whole turkey thing," he went on. "I've spent the entire morning smelling it, thinking about it, and wanting it."

"I'll look around and lock up myself, then."

He seemed to consider the option before shaking his head. "I can't. I'm a realtor, you're a buyer. I'm here for you."

"But it's Thanksgiving."

"It's just another day."

The words made her think of her father's work ethic. His fierce push to put business before everything else. Had it rubbed off? Guilt welled inside her. It was just another day for her, but this man probably had a family waiting for him. "I'm really fine on my own."

"I can't--"

"White meat," she blurted. "Juicy, tender, succulent white meat." He licked his lips and she knew she had him. "And stuffing."

"Cornbread stuffing," he added.

"Cornbread stuffing," she agreed. "And cranberry sauce and homemade sweet potatoes with marshmallows and pecans and--"

"Call me on Monday if you have any questions." A minute later, she heard tires squeal as he pulled away from the curb. Silence settled in after that, disrupted only by the break of waves against the pier outside and the occasional grumble of a passing car engine.

"I guess it's just you and me," she said to the woman depicted in the fringe-framed portrait. With that, Elizabeth set to work.

She spent the next half-hour going through the upstairs, trailing her hands over the iron bed frames, sitting on the edge of the ancient mattresses, and doing her best to ignore the image of a dark, delicious cowboy that kept pushing into her thoughts.

This wasn't about her fantasies, about her erotic dreams involving a hunky cowboy and a seductive striptease. This was about the Laramies. It was strictly business, and from a purely professional standpoint, this place would hardly suffice as a posh Wild West bordello.

Once upon a time, she told herself as she walked the bedroom-lined hallway, but not now. No matter how big the bedroom was at the far end. Or that she could actually picture a king-sized bed draped in red velvet, and a ceiling covered with a giant mirror, and a velvet settee draped with a forgotten gun belt.

She pushed her imaginings aside as she walked back downstairs. From there, she climbed the stairs behind the stage and found a small dressing room. The chamber had a cracked oval mirror hanging on the wall, a scarred armoire and a large dust-covered trunk with the initials SS carved into the top.

SS, as in Sinful Sinclair? That couldn't be. The thing would then have to be an antique, and people didn't leave valuable antiques sitting around. Unless the antique in question was tied up in a court battle.

"Sinful, you were definitely a bad girl," she said when the lid's rusty hinges finally allowed it to be opened with a loud creak. She stared at the contents -- everything from feather boas and silky stockings to a jewel-encrusted garter.

The garter from the picture!

She fingered the satin band as her mind rushed back to the portrait. The garter was so gaudy and bold and outrageous.

It was everything she wasn't.

Everything she'd ever wanted to be.

A smile tugged at her lips, and before she could think better of it, she peeled off her clothes. Opening the armoire, she tugged on one of the costumes she knew would be inside. Just to see what it felt like to trade in her old, stuffy, conservative suit for something naughty and wicked and exciting.

Okay, so she felt more itchy and smelly and uncomfortable, she admitted when she stood wearing nothing but a short red dancing dress. But while she felt ready to jump out of her skin, she looked good. The tight-fitting, low-cut bodice did more for her not-so-voluptuous chest than any Wonder bra she'd ever tried, and the flared skirt camouflaged her not-so-perfect hips.

She reached for the stockings next, followed by a pair of outlandishly high lace-up shoes that were at least two sizes too large -- Sinful had obviously had some mighty big feet. Then she hooked her foot through the garter, slid it up over her calf, her knee...

Her hands trembled, an odd tingling sensation spreading up her arms and into her body as she pulled the satin into place and turned toward the stage. For a split-second, a memory rushed at her, overwhelming all of her senses. The after-prom party. The cheering and chanting of the crowd. And her one shot to prove she wasn't as prim and proper as everyone had thought.