The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (2 page)

She could just make him out, sitting alone in the shadows with his back to the corner. On the table before him sat a near-empty bottle of whiskey. Seemingly oblivious to the noise around him, his head lolled against the wall. In the half-light of the kerosene lamps, she could see his face was in dire need of a razor's attention. He wasn't what one would call handsome. Chiseled, perhaps. Hacked out of granite; features too rough for kindness; too hardened by life for gentleness.

Lamplight carved arrogance into the hollows beneath his cheeks and gave the strong angle of his jaw a stubborn sensuality. Thick, dark brows slashed above his eyes, sheltering the crescent of lash that cast a dark shadow along the bones of his face. And his mouth—

Grace's hand crept reflexively to her throat, tamping down the unexpected heat that spread from that spot. His mouth was at once unforgiving and indecently beautiful. If he owned the capacity to smile, she had no doubt that smile would be as dangerous as the rest of him.

Black suited him the way it suited a starless night. He wore it from head to toe. From one hand dangled an empty shot glass. From the other came the red glow of a cigarette as he took a languid drag and sent smoke rings drifting to the ceiling. With his boots propped atop the table in front of him, his long legs crossed at the ankle, the man epitomized indolence. Yet there was something about him, a careless, predatory awareness; a feeling that he could spring to his feet with the vaguest encouragement or threat.

That he fit so easily into a roomful of mercenaries and men of the lawless persuasion was no coincidence. This dark archangel of a man wasn't hero material, Grace decided. More likely Lucifer's assistant.

If she had her druthers she would have chosen someone—
anyone
—else. But she'd already used up all her other choices; men clearly more respectable than Donovan to take on the task she required. They'd all turned her down flat. In fact, when she'd asked them, they'd looked at her as if she'd just swallowed a frog, whole.

No, Reese Donovan was not just her last choice, he was her only hope. And Luke's, as well.

Grace bent lower and pushed open the louvered door a fraction for a clearer view. A black-haired floozy wearing shockingly little but a loosely strung corset and camisole, a knee-length green satin skirt and rolled-down stockings, sidled into Grace's view and stopped in front of Donovan. She must have spoken to him, because he roused out of his stupor long enough to slide one hand around her shapely bottom to pull her close.

The woman let out a squeal of laughter as Donovan tossed her across his lap and kissed her as thoroughly as Grace had ever seen a woman kissed. His opened mouth ground against hers hungrily and the woman molded her voluptuous body to his, drawing him more fully up against her.

Grace felt an emotion somewhere between fascination and outrage at the raw sexuality that leaped between Donovan and the woman like a wind-fed flame. The prim Miss Beauregard had never hinted at sexuality in her genteel admonitions against public—or for that matter, private—displays of affection, where passion had no place in the duties a woman was expected to perform as a wife.

Grace's eyes widened at the sight, and her cheeks went hot. But then, she thought, swallowing hard, the woman in Reese Donovan's arms was no wife and was governed by no such rules of propriety. And unless she was mistaken, the woman seemed to be enjoying the kiss as much as Donovan. That observation gave her pause.

Of course, she mused with a frown, she'd been kissed. Edgar had kissed her when they'd found themselves alone in the garden that day. A discreet—even pleasant—joining of lips, which she only now realized had inspired none of the electricity of Donovan's unbridled assault. Did soiled doves feel things other women could not? Or did such women simply have other, perhaps darker, motives? Grace leaned a little closer, unable to stop her novelist's imagination from running amuck....

* * *

Lorna Lee Goodnight spied on the outlaw from behind her China-silk fan. Dressed in the nefarious color of his profession, the unsuspecting gunslinger dragged the painted woman closer, whispering something illicit in her ear. The trollop performed her role to the hilt, throwing her head back with a throaty laugh and kissing him hard before she poured him another shot glass full of the demon liquor till the potent brew overspilled its bounds.

Dead-Eye Donovan slugged down the fiery drink with a grimace, unaware of what Lorna Lee already knew: Tonight, he'd run afoul of more than just the law. He'd unwittingly crossed paths with the Black Widow Murderess!

* * *

A pair of hands cinched around Grace's waist from behind, startling her out of her daydream.

"Hey,
bon-eeta,"
a voice whispered in her ear, "you lookin' fer somebody?"

Grace gasped, lost her balance and fell right through the doors, stumbling into the crowded cantina with all the aplomb of a singed-tail cat. An unnatural hush fell over the room as she regained her balance. Each head turned questioningly her way. All save one. Donovan was too occupied with the black-haired hussy to notice that a decent woman had just stumbled into his den of iniquity.

The young, brown-haired American who'd spoken to her hooked one hand over the louvered door. He grinned at her, revealing a slash of even, white teeth, a matchstick clenched between them. His cocky expression offended her, but it was his slow, insolent perusal of her body that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She guessed he couldn't be much more than a year or two older than her own twenty, but he had the look of trouble about him, like a potful of sorghum about to boil over.

"You lookin' fer me, I hope?" Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, he tilted his narrow hips suggestively toward her.

Grace gulped. "I most certainly am not."

"Aw, now that ain't real friendly." He spread his hands wide, taking a step closer. "I saw that purty little bottom o' yours waggin' in the air, I says to myself, now there's a backside I'd like to get better acquainted with."

Her mouth fell open in outrage. "You, sir, are no gentleman."

"Aw, don't be that way. I just want to get to know you."

Her backside collided, then, with a table filled with men. She felt herself blush right up to her roots at their laughter and at the insulting proposal in the young cowboy's eyes.

Pushing away, she yanked the cuffs of her sleeves with a self-righteous tug and, with a snap of her fan, she sent the leering idiot her most condescending look. "Well, I can assure you that if I picked someone to get to know, it wouldn't be a scallawag who's... who's ugly as... homemade sin!"

Hoots of raucous laughter followed her as she smoothed her damp palms down the sides of her dress and moved purposefully away from the red-faced cowboy toward the back of the room, toward the man she'd come to see.

He didn't even notice when she stopped beside his table, nor did he budge when she cleared her throat. He was too busy tasting the questionable fruits of the woman in his lap.

Grace coughed.

It took him a moment, but Donovan lifted his mouth lazily from the harlot's and looked around for the source of the intrusion.

"Mr. Donovan, I presume?" She tried for the gracious smile Miss Eustasia Beauregard had drilled into each and every one of her young charges, but her lips quivered in rebellion.

For a few moments, his bloodshot, sea green eyes seemed unable to focus on her. When at last they did, a frown pulled at his brow.

"Who the devil are you?" A hint of a brogue colored his words, an effect heightened, no doubt, by the whiskey he was guzzling.

"My name is Grace Turner, Mr. Donovan. I've come to ask your assistance."

"My what?"

"Assistance," she repeated more slowly, wondering just how drunk he was. "Your help?"

Now the harlot looked up at Grace with annoyance. She'd been beautiful once, Grace mused, with a fine olive complexion and thick black hair that reached to her waist. Her features, hardened by time and her profession, Grace supposed, were strong and well-formed—like a Michelangelo portrait she'd once glimpsed of a woman from Verona, Italy. But this woman was glaring at her and her full lips, bruised from Donovan's kiss, were rounded in an unattractive pout.

Reaching one hand up, the trollop traced her forefinger with playful suggestion down Donovan's profile.
"Querido,"
she whispered.

He grinned down at her, and made to drop his mouth on hers once again.

Grace rolled her eyes heavenward.
"Mister
Donovan, if I could have only a moment of your time?"

Irritation bunched between his dark eyebrows. "Look, whatever you're sellin', I'm not buyin'."

"I'm not selling anything. Please, just hear me out. It'll only take a minute to listen."

Donovan's gaze traveled ever so deliberately down the length of her, pausing on her breasts, waist, and hips, ending at the tips of her sensible, black, buttonhook boots. Heat seared each spot his gaze hesitated on, an effect she was quite sure was intentional.

A half smile tipped the corner of his mouth. He glanced down at the woman in his lap, then eased her up and off.
"Momento,
Maria." He pulled a gold eagle from the pocket of his vest and flipped it to her. "Go buy me another bottle,
querida."

"Pero
—" Maria started to protest.

"Ahora."
Then he added more softly,
"Por favor."

Maria flashed an accusing look at Grace before doing as he asked, her hips sashaying to and fro in seductive retreat.

Donovan dragged his gaze back to Grace, fitted a cigarette between his lips, and lit it. Smoke circled incongruously around his head, an ill-begotten halo.

"You got one minute," he told her, blowing a cloud of smoke in her direction.

Grace pressed her lilac-scented hanky to her nose to hold at bay the sneeze she felt coming on. Smoke always had that effect on her.

"As I said, I'm in need of your assistance."

"I make it a hard rule never to assist anyone but myself, Miss—?"

She sniffed. "Turner."

Donovan threw back another shot of whiskey. He grimaced and exhaled sharply as the liquor burned its way down. "Miss Turner. I pick and choose the jobs I want. If you know who I am, then I imagine you'd know that about me by now."

"I did hear rumors," she admitted, plucking at the edge of her hanky, "but from what I hear, you're more than capable of accomplishing what I have in mind."

He ran the tip of his index finger absently around the edge of his shot glass. She followed the movement with her eyes, thinking how strange it was to find a man's hands graceful.

"Capable and willing are miles apart," Donovan replied curtly. "And they haven't a damn thing t' do with one another."

She pursed her lips. "I'll thank you not to swear at me, Mr. Donovan."

"I'll say whatever I damn well please,
Miss
Turner. And I say you'd better get the hell out of this place if you know what's good for you. A woman like you is about as safe as a quail in a fox den in this place."

Or near you,
she added silently. She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow herself to be baited. "Perhaps, but I'm willing to risk considerably to get what I want." The smoke tickled her nose. She pressed a knuckle there, but even that couldn't stop it from coming.

"Ah-ah-choo-oo!"

One of his dark eyebrows arched in amusement and it occurred to her he hadn't even the couth to say God bless you.

"So, what exactly is it you want so badly, Miss Turner?"

"You," she replied without hesitation. "I want you."

A slow, masculine grin spread across that sensual face of his. "Well, why didn't you just say so?" He held one hand out in invitation, more than willing to comply.

Shocked, she backed up two steps, staying just out of his reach. "No... no, what I meant... what I intended to say was I want you to help me get my brother out of Mexico."

His smile vanished with the speed of heat lightning. He took a drag on his cigarette and regarded her for a long minute before he spoke. "Mexico?"

She nodded silently.

"It's a big country. Exactly where in Mexico?"

"A place called Querétaro."

He snubbed his smoke out viciously against the sand-filled tin ashtray sitting on the table. "You're outta your bloody mind."

"They say you have connections with Juarez's rebel forces...." She paused deliberately. "As well as Maximilian's—"

With an agility she'd never have thought him capable of in his inebriated condition, Donovan shot out of his chair, grabbed her arm and pulled her far out of earshot of the table full of men playing faro nearby. Her fan slapped shut and she let out a cry of surprise as his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. Her back collided with a wall.

"Who told ya that?" he demanded with a low growl.

"Ow!"

"Answer me."

Up close, he smelled of whiskey and leather and Maria's strong ambergris perfume—and some scent that was his alone. He towered over her with a furious look on his face. She shrank against the wall and took a deep breath to calm the pounding of her heart, despite the unexpected thrill that chased through her at his sudden closeness. The utter absurdity of that reaction stunned her even more than what he'd done.