His Most Wanted (5 page)

“Somewhat.” She hated to discuss her past. Too painful.

“I admire a woman with a mind for business.”

Invading her space, he reached for the open wardrobe, where he handled one of her silk dresses hanging within, running his fingertips slowly up the sleeve with a stroke so intimate and deliberate she could almost feel the warmth of his skin on hers. It put an unfamiliar quiver in her belly. If he began opening her drawers, touching her lacy underthings, she would surely melt—and not because of the velvet cloak hidden within the wardrobe either.

He braced a hand on the door of the cabinet, effectively blocking her path to the door. “Does the bordello bring in a lot of money?”

His question erased the pleasant tingle in her body that his perusal of her clothes had produced. Did he think she would give up her profits so easily? She gave him a cold look.

“I only ask because my brothel took a hard financial fall shortly after one of its longtime investors passed away. Apparently, I wasn't the businessman my uncle hoped I was, but I'd like to think I wasn't the main cause of the business's demise.” His lips twisted in a sad half smile.

She moved a step away from the rifle she'd been seeking in the shadows behind her. His wistful tone reminded her again of last night and his drunken words. She didn't want to feel sorry for him, didn't want to know he grieved. “Kit—”

“I apologize. I hope I wasn't this maudlin last night. Talking of Uncle Bart? And business?” He snorted. “How much did I pay you? I'm sure it wasn't enough. You must've thought me the worst customer ever.”

He truly remembered nothing, because if he had, he would know she hadn't taken a cent of his money.

“Not at all.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Forgive me for being rude, but it's getting late. What exactly do you have to say to me?”

He slid his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He then opened it and held it before her. “I've been charged with capturing Velvet Grace.”

The poster had haunted her every move in town, pasted on the wall at the bank, the post office, Jupiter's, wherever she'd went. Her pulse kicked into a stampede seeing it in the new sheriff's hand. “W-what does this have to do with me?”

He refolded the paper and returned it to his clothing. “I figured you might be able to give me a few possible names to begin with. It's rather extraordinary, a woman who shot a sheriff and fired at the deputy? She wouldn't be any regular homesteader's wife, I imagine.”

She played with a curl that had fallen to her shoulder and forced a laugh. “Do you think I know any women besides the ones who work for me? Really? You should ask me about the
men
of Fort McNamara, Sheriff. The only other females I see are the wives who come around here looking for their husbands.”

He laughed. “I guess you're right.”

“You're on your own. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help.” She skirted around him, intending to open the door for him to leave, but he caught her elbow.

“Cora—”

His grip was loose, but he captivated her with the appeal in his gaze and the tender stroke of his thumb on her arm.

“What?” She fell under the spell of his azure gaze as his touch sent a ripple of pleasure deep within her.

“I really would like another night with you. One I can remember.”

She swallowed. “I usually don't take customers.”

“But you made an exception last night, and I'm glad. You're quite beautiful.” He stepped closer, a sly smile creating a dimple in his cheek. “Here's an idea. I won't pay you. It's that simple.”

The nerve!
Her spine stiffened. “C-can I say no…now that you're sheriff?”

The brilliant light behind his eyes dimmed a fraction. “Of course. If that's what you want.”

“It's nothing personal. Just my policy.”

He frowned. “I've never hated whiskey more in my life. Did I at least get my money's worth?” His gaze bore into hers as if trying to unlock his memory, and she felt his scrutiny the same as if it were his touch…intimate, disquieting.

“Of course,” she cooed, bracing a hand on his other arm. The hardness of his biceps sent her thoughts skittering to other parts of his body, wondering if he was as hard elsewhere.

He glanced at her mouth. “I don't even remember kissing you. Did you enjoy kissing me?”

She couldn't resist looking at his mouth, so near now as he stood over her. His lips were smooth beneath the black scruff of his stubble, and she was overwhelmed with a sudden desire to run the tip of her tongue across them.

Her cheeks scalded.

He made an amused sound in his throat. “Would you allow me one more kiss so I might jar my memory?”

Conceding seemed too easy. She'd had plenty of kisses in her life, some stolen, others bought and paid for. Never in all her twenty-six years had she ever kissed a man because she simply wanted to, and suddenly there was nothing she wanted more than this stranger's mouth touching hers. She wondered what it might feel like having the lips of such a good-looking rogue against hers. The fact that he had more experience than she did seemed obvious and somehow intriguing.

Oh, just one brief kiss to fill her curiosity.

“Only one,” she murmured. “Then you go.”

The corners of his mouth curved upward, and he leaned down.

His fingertips touched her chin, tilting her to the angle he seemed to desire, then he lowered his mouth to hers. She closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation. His warm lips were gentle, caressing, not too demanding, and she became aware of his other hand spanning her side, fingers holding her still.

“Was it like this?” he whispered, and his whiskers teased her mouth until all her sensations seemed to center there.

“Mmm hmm.” She put a hand between them, resting it against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady drum against her palm.

“Are you sure I didn't kiss you more like this?” He kissed her top lip, then her bottom. The tip of his tongue traced the line between them, seeking entry.

Heaven help her, she had to hurry and get rid of the man, but she couldn't stop herself from opening for his plunder. He swept his tongue across hers, and she moved closer, widening for him. He suckled her into his heat, drawing her tight against the length of his solid body. And, yes, every inch of him was harder than she'd imagined.

Madness.
Surely it was recklessness too, but she was no longer her safe, business-minded self. In this wild moment, she was just a woman with desires of her own, enjoying the passion of a worldly man who wanted her in return.

Easing back, he turned her head gently with his fingertips, gaining access to her cheek where he kissed her. “Cora—” his breath rushed across her ear, “—you're a clever deceiver.”

Chapter Five

“I am?” Cora blinked, feigning innocence as her body went suddenly brittle in Kit's arms.

He had always believed himself immune to the artifices of women, particularly prostitutes and mistresses, yet somehow this lady's stunning verdant eyes staring up at him made him forget for a moment that she was a professional, her heart likely as hard as iron. He'd have to be more careful. However, he wasn't ready to give in to her coy wishes so easily either. She wouldn't kiss him like that, as if he were her first taste of cream candy, if she didn't desire him, especially being as how she wasn't even collecting a penny for it.

“We didn't do a damned thing last night, Cora. If we had, I'd have kissed you several times, and—” he paused, giving in to the urge to nuzzle the silky gold hair tucked behind her ear, “—I'd remember a kiss like that.”

She trembled in response, though he couldn't be certain if his words or his touch caused the effect. He leaned back and watched her luminous eyes widen in uncertainty rather than her usual confidence. A moment ago, before they'd kissed, her gaze had been full of longing. He'd wanted a taste of her so badly that he'd stayed sober for the first night in two weeks, and now he wanted more. She'd melded to him, her feminine charms tempting enough to bring him to his knees. His hands longed to roam across her smooth ivory skin, past the demure neckline of her silk dress to knead her full breasts. Nothing could bring him greater pleasure tonight than holding her and burying himself in her sweet heat.

“I talk too much. Kiss me again, and I'll shut up.” He cupped the back of her neck and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the sunshine in her hair.

She exhaled and tapped the metal star pinned to his vest. “Are you a man of your word, Kit?”

He eased back, keeping her in the circle of his arms. “I am.”

“I like to keep my word too. When I took over the Willows, I promised my ladies I wouldn't share my bed here with any man. Besides, last night you were in no state to perform. I couldn't take your money with a good conscience.”

Ah.
She still considered him a potential customer. Of course, she wouldn't wish to steal money away from her employees, but he didn't desire to share their beds. Oh, they were fetching enough. Especially the twins. But hell, right now all he could think of was the powerful pressure in his pants and the lovely blonde who'd caused it.

Maybe he could get her to quit thinking of him as a customer and instead as a suitable lover…

He traced her dewy cheekbone with his thumb until he reached the luscious, inviting swell of her bottom lip. Surely he could steal another kiss, and she would return the gesture. Even now, her eyelids fluttered for an instant, and her breathing stopped in anticipation. Unless he was grossly mistaken, she wanted him.

He must find patience. Somehow.

“All right, Cora. You can have it your way.” He slid his arms from her, and her flushed face regained its normal color, seeming to find relief in his absence.

She made a beeline to open the door and waited. “I hope you're not angry at me, Sheriff. You were in no shape for business with any of my ladies last night.”

He retrieved his bag, put his hat on and went to where she stood. “That's probably true, and I should thank you for letting me stay under your roof.”

Apprehension flickered across her upturned face before she recovered with a smile. “Of course, you're welcome. We're g-glad to have you in Fort McNamara.”

Her fear, if that's what he was witnessing, galled him to the core. “You know, just because I can shoot straight and I'm wearing a badge now doesn't mean we should be at odds.” He softened his voice, hoping to allay her worries. “Where I'm from on the Mississippi, there's only gambling, cheating and dueling. When I became my uncle's ward, I had to learn to protect myself in order to survive in that kind of lifestyle.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me.” Her smile widened, but the worry didn't leave her eyes.

Self-disgust tightened his throat. The more he attempted to reassure her, the more he hated himself. This was one standoff he couldn't win.

Cora followed him to the building's entrance, keeping more than an arm's distance behind, though he could feel her watching him. At the door, she caught up with him and laid a light hand on his shoulder. “Wait.” She sighed as if she'd just lost an inner battle. “I-I just realized Andrea's sleeping in Bernadette's bedroom until she's stronger. You can sleep in her vacant room, if you'd like.”

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and studied her expression. She averted her eyes, making it impossible to determine what had changed her mind.

“Thank you. That's generous.” He supposed he should consider this a small victory.

She led him upstairs to a hallway with five closed doors. The bedroom where he would be sleeping was the first. He'd no sooner turned the doorknob than she left him and retreated downstairs, as if being alone with him another second was unbearable.

He laid his satchel atop a desk and turned to the small quilt-covered bed. Tomorrow he would ride out to Dillard's Peak and finally complete his uncle's last instructions. He couldn't be done soon enough with that task.

With his spirit heavy and his body still taut from his unrequited need, he unbuttoned his shirt for what he knew would be a restless night. The room was stuffy from the heat rising from the furnace downstairs. He went to the window, parted the drapes and pushed it open. There was no breeze outside, but the air felt cool and refreshing on his heated face. He leaned out to soak up more when a sound below caught his ear.

A scraping noise came from the bushes beneath his window. As he watched, a wedge of light spanned outward from Cora's room into the shrubbery. A figure slipped outside, and the hinge squeaked again as the opening closed.

His heart hammered at the discovery of the secret entrance. Or exit, in this case, coming from the bedroom wall.

The bushes shuddered, parted, and the woman emerged into the shadowed lawn with the bedroom window's faint light illuminating her golden hair and casting sheen on the blue velvet cloak swirling around her.

His gut plummeted at what he was witnessing.

Cora was Velvet Grace, the murderer he sought?

He could hardly trust his eyes as the lady darted into the street, lifting her hood to cover her bright tresses. The sight of her looking so lovely as she glanced over her shoulder at the Willows stirred him, and he ducked inside his window just in time to avoid being seen.

Should he stop her? Question her?

He kept her in his view while she rushed down the street. His hand closed over the handle of his revolver, instinct compelling him to draw and call for her to yield. But hell, he could no more pull a gun on Cora than he could turn it on himself. Killer or not, she was a female, and he couldn't make himself aim a loaded Colt in her direction for any reason.

Christ.
He should follow her. It was his job as sheriff.

He took another look out the window and watched her sticking to the shadows, hurrying away.

Where was she headed? To kill someone else? At the rate she was traveling, he would never catch up with her in time to know her destination.

There was no better choice than to wait for her return. She wouldn't know he'd seen her, and he would have the element of surprise when he confronted her.

If Cora was Velvet, a suspected killer and the woman he'd been hired to catch, she could've already struck down a sheriff and shot at the deputy. He prayed to God she wouldn't kill anyone else. If she did, he would be responsible for allowing it.

To think, only minutes ago he'd held her in his arms, and she could've killed him too. Hell, last night he'd even given her his own weapon.

Glancing at the satchel holding Uncle Bart's ashes, he could almost hear the old man grumbling in his ear again about the company he kept. Cora might be guilty, or she might not, but either way, he respected her cleverness. If he was going to make the old man proud of him from beyond the grave, he'd have to apprehend her and get to the truth.

No matter how much he might hate the answers.

Cora had always taken the best care of her mother's roses, brought with love from their garden in Jackson when they'd moved to the Arkansas frontier town. Her mother had spent more hours coaxing the rosebuds to bloom than on her own daughter's care, though Cora never minded much.

Try as she might, no matter how much she groomed the briars, she never could seem to tame the shrubs into creating the glorious blooms of her childhood memory. For that reason, she adored her few resilient blossoms. The massive hedgerow towered outside her bedroom, an imposing force after dark, keeping cowboys from sneaking looks at her through her bedroom window when they didn't have enough money to pay for her ladies. She'd ordered the hidden door installed shortly after her mother passed away, realizing she'd get little help from the law if there was ever trouble.

Presently, returning through the thorny branches using her velvet cloak as a shield, she found the hidden break in the landscaping, the only place to slip through unhindered to re-enter her bedroom.

Dark now, the room's light had perhaps been extinguished by the draft from her secret door. She'd only planned on being gone long enough to put the fear of God in Andrea's attacker and return before the oil in her lantern ran out. Not finding the man in town, she'd failed on both accounts, and now weariness settled on her shoulders. Her bed would feel wonderful, providing the only solace for her defeated spirit.

In the darkness, she ran her hands along the wall of the building until her fingertips found the joint in the wooden paneling. She pried the loose panel back and grasped the metal handle within. With a hard tug, the door gave way, its hinges slightly squeaking. Once inside, she pulled the door shut and slipped around the wardrobe concealing the entrance. Sighing, she slung her cloak in the direction of her dresser, where it made a satisfying thump on the floor.

She crossed the room without any problems, stopping when her knees bumped the edge of the bed. She paused to unbutton her bodice and had four of the tiny shell buttons undone when she noted the foreign smell in the air.

Leather. Most likely
saddle
leather, though she couldn't imagine where it came from. She owned nothing of the sort.

Her stomach dipped with alarm. Someone had been in her room, and that's why the lantern was out. What if that someone was
still
in the room?

Wary of every sound she made, she pulled her petticoats up and up until she found her pistol. She closed her fingers over the hilt, but it was too late. The intruder's hand covered hers on the gun as he came up behind her, his other hand flat against her stomach, drawing her against him. His body was like an iron wall behind her.

“Doesn't that chafe?” Kit Wainwright murmured, his mouth right beside her ear.

“You! Of all the audacity.” Her heart raced as she felt his fingers examine the leather and lace holster of her tiny pistol before coming back to caress her hand. She touched the trigger. Not in her wildest imagination could she draw fast enough to stop him if he meant her harm, and he could easily overpower her. Even now, his body made a fortress around her, trapping her within the circle of his arms like a stone tower. She had only one defense at the present. “Let go of me, or I'll scream.”

His breath feathered across her cheek. “All you have to do is ask.” His fingers strayed across her holster, gliding intimately over her inner thigh before taking hold of her hand again. His lips turned against her ear. “On second thought, I'd like to study your technique. We could take turns showing each other how we draw—”

She shuddered from the onslaught of awakened senses—fear, panic and curiosity. “I knew I shouldn't have let you stay the night. What the hell are you doing in my room?” Dawning realization of what he might want sent heat rushing through her. She couldn't allow him to know how his words and touch affected her. If he felt the slightest bit justified in his advances, he might take his actions further. He was a stranger and potentially dangerous…perhaps even deadly. She must remember that.

“I've been waiting for you, obviously.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist, urging her to release her gun. When she let go, he turned her in his arms as her skirt dropped back between him and the holstered pistol. “I let myself in your window since your door was bolted.”

He struck a lucifer and held the flame between them. The light cast an ominous glow on his features. His eyes were cold and dark beneath the black arches of his brows.

She staggered back. “How is that possible? The shrubs—”

He held out his forearm, and the match revealed a series of fresh, thin scratches along his skin beneath his rolled up sleeve. “Do you really think I'd be afraid of a few roses?”

Oh, what must he think of her. Did he believe she'd left the room through the window as well, or had he seen the secret door behind the wardrobe?

The cloak.
She couldn't let him find the evidence linking her to Velvet Grace. Steadying her voice, she asked, “Could you make yourself useful with that lucifer and light my lantern?”

His gaze flicked to her nightstand as if remembering where he'd seen it last. He cupped a hand around the flame and went to do as she'd asked.

While he was distracted with the lantern, she went to the dresser and shoved the cloak deep inside a drawer.

They were soon enveloped in the warm glow of the lamp. “Now.” She sighed, turning to face him as she leaned against the dresser. “What brought you into my locked room?”

“We weren't done.”

“We weren't?”

He stalked closer. “Not by a long shot. But…are you going to tell me why you snuck out?”