This Gun for Hire (17 page)

He nodded and started to retreat.

“No,” she said when she understood he meant to sit in it no matter where it was. “I want you to sit here. With me.”

Quill turned and stepped sideways out of the line of the firelight. His eyes narrowed fractionally as he studied her features. She did not look as if she was up to mischief, but neither did she look particularly innocent. “You have a good poker face.”

“I do,” she said agreeably.

“I still think you’re drunk.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m drunk.”

Quill took off his hat and coat and put them on the window bench. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t it be better if you behaved like you have some sense?”

Calico patted the space beside her. “Wouldn’t it be better if you behaved like Old Scratch was whisperin’ in your ear?”

“Damn,” he said under his breath. And then he sat. “Move over, I need more room.”

Calico scooted sideways while Quill made a quarter turn toward her and drew up a knee so he could rest it on the bed. “Better?” she asked.

He ignored the question and asked his own. “Do you ever not get your way?”

“Of course.”

“Name one time.”

She didn’t have to think about it. “I offered to give Ann riding lessons, and she turned me down.”

“Did she tell you she’s afraid of horses?”

“No. Is she?”

“Uh-huh.”

Calico sighed. “Well, there you have it. My motive was completely selfish, but you already know that. I wanted a reason to get out of the house.”

“Maybe there is something I can do about that.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. No promises.” Quill glimpsed her hopeful expression before she schooled her features. “No promises,” he said firmly.

Calico slipped one arm free of the blankets and found his hand. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed.

He merely grunted softly, noncommittally.

She opened her fingers but did not withdraw her hand. There was a short silence. She could not guess what he was thinking, but she decided to say what was on her mind. “Men have kissed me before.”

Quill blinked. “I know,” he said slowly. “I was one of them. Did you think I forgot?”

“No. At least I hoped not. It’s all right to say that, isn’t it? That I hoped you didn’t forget?” She sighed heavily. “This is like setting out in the dark with no notion of the lay of the land. Seems I’m already running headlong into my first obstacle what with you sitting there like the great stony face of a mountain.”

“I was only waiting for you to draw a breath. The answer to your question is yes. It’s all right to say that you hoped I didn’t forget.”

She nodded. “I guess that’s good. That you didn’t forget and that I can speak my mind about it.”

“Yes,” he said, careful not to smile. “Both those things are good.”

Catching something vaguely patronizing in his tone, she regarded him suspiciously. “You just spoke to me as if I were a child. There is no convincing you I am not drunk.”

“Tipsy, then.”

“If you like.” She waved her hand airily. “Now about the other. I thought you should know that those men who kissed me, well, I kissed them back. Most of them.”

Quill knew he shouldn’t ask, but the devil was whispering in his ear. “The ones you didn’t kiss back . . . what did you do?”

“I walloped one with my first reader. I was six and he was eight.”

“That happens,” Quill said philosophically.

“The other fellow I marched off to jail at the end of my Colt.”

“For kissing you? That seems excessive. Please tell me you were not six.”

“Funny. He was a felon who thought he had a way with women, whether they wanted him to have his way or not. It was a real pleasure taking him in.”

“Good for you.”

She smiled a trifle lopsidedly, proud of what she’d done and a little embarrassed that she had shared it. “So there you have it. I am not inexperienced.”

“And you thought that was important to tell me.”

“Yes. It occurred to me that you might have thought differently.” She shrugged. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“Ah-hah.”

Laughter rumbled deep in his throat. “Ah-hah? Do you think we would still be kissing if I had gauged your experience better?”

Calico sobered, after a fashion. “I didn’t think that . . . exactly.”

“Hmm.”

“But I’ve noticed that when you’re not barging in where you don’t belong, or sneaking up on a body, you’re real mannerly.”

“You think I need some encouragement?”

“Don’t you?”

“Not as much as you’re offering.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Then why haven’t you kissed me?”

“Aren’t you worried that we’ll get bored with it? Bored to the point of stupefication, I think you said.”

“I said that because I shouldn’t want you. I don’t even want to like you.”

“
In vino veritas
,” Quill said, shaking his head. “I know. Don’t you think I know? Here it is, Calico, the truth: If I kiss you now, it won’t end there. Not this time. I don’t mind if you take me for a gentleman, but you should not mistake me for
a saint.” The look he gave her was significant for its knowing. “And it’s already too late for you to bluff. Your poker face doesn’t work when you’re flushed to the roots of your hair.”

Still, she tried. “Of course I’m flushed. These blankets are tucked around me so I can’t move, and that fire is blazing. I’m still wearing all my clothes, and you poured whiskey down my—”

Quill said, not unkindly, “Shut up, Calico.” He bent and put his lips to hers.

She made a small sound, not protesting, just startled. She welcomed the pressure of his mouth. It held her still in a way the tight cocoon of blankets could not. It comforted and excited, and it seemed perfectly reasonable just then that his kiss should do both.

When he released her, drawing back just a hairsbreadth to change position, she lifted her head, reluctant to let him go. Her mouth brushed his jaw. His stubble was rough against her sensitive, slightly swollen lips, but the sensation tickled more than stung. She followed the line of his jaw to the hollow behind his ear, and then she whispered, “One of us is on the wrong side of the blankets.” His soft chuckle made her smile; his breath was warm against her neck.

Neither of them attempted to deal with the wrong side/right side of the blanket problem. A tangle was inevitable. What they avoided was the argument about it.

Quill caught her chin with his fingertips and lifted it a fraction. Her lips parted. The narrow, dark space between them was an invitation. Their sweetly puckered outline was a promise.

“You are all temptation,” he said, and then he plundered her mouth.

Calico welcomed him, welcomed the deep, driving force of that kiss, the way it covered her, took her over, took her under, and made her so very grateful she was a woman to this man. She lifted her arm that was still outside the blankets and rubbed his back with her palm. His shoulders bunched under her touch. A shudder tripped along the length of his spine. He moved closer. It was as if she had pulled a trigger.

She liked that.

Calico stretched, arched her back. She wanted to be against him; she wanted to be flush to his taut frame. The blankets were an annoyance. Their clothes were genuine obstacles.

She freed her other arm from out of the cocoon and slid her hand between their bodies. Three buttons fastened his jacket and she undid them easily. Further exploration revealed four buttons on his vest, and she worked on those from top to bottom. When she found six buttons on his shirt, she actually groaned and pushed at his shoulders in frustration.

“You are more buttoned up than an undertaker.”

Quill levered himself on one elbow and regarded her handiwork. “You seem to be doing all right. Do you want help?”

Calico put up a hand, pretending to shield her eyes from his grin. “My God, Quill, even in this light your teeth gleam.” When he abruptly laughed, she clapped that hand over his mouth. “Shh. You will wake someone.”

He circled her wrist and removed her hand, but not before he kissed the heart of her palm. That quieted her. He moved her hand to his shirtfront and waited for her fingers to begin to fiddle with a button. “One at a time,” he said, releasing her.

A small crease appeared between Calico’s eyebrows as she worked. “This is like picking a lock, only harder.” She nudged his breastbone with the heel of her hand when she felt a chuckle rumbling in his chest. He never gave sound to it, so she didn’t hit him again. When she was done, she felt a measure of satisfaction out of all proportion to what she had accomplished . . . until she discovered the buttons on his union suit. “This is what explosives are for,” she muttered.

“You are frightening, do you know that?” He pushed her hand out of the way and finished the job himself. As soon as he was done, her hand slipped inside the opening and lay against his skin. He sucked in a breath. “Your fingers are still cold.”

“Why do you think they were so clumsy with the buttons? I’m warming them.” Before he could stop her, she turned
so she could get her other hand inside. “This is nice. You’re like a furnace. Should have known, you swallowing the sun and all.”

“Uh-huh. That must be it.” He might have said more, had been considering it anyway, but her palms began to slip upward across his chest. If he was warming her up, then she was doing the same to him.

Calico parted the material wider. She leaned in and kissed him in the space she made between her hands. She did it again and again, each kiss a little higher on his chest than the last, until she reached the hollow below his throat. Lifting her head, she kissed him on the mouth.

Quill let her topple him onto his back. She rolled so she was partially covering him with the blankets and her body. This time he was the one cocooned. As confinements went, this one had a lot to recommend it. He waited to see what she would do.

For a time, she merely held his gaze. Direct. Steady. He did not feint. Neither did she. The narrowest of smiles signaled her intent. Satisfaction for her. Anticipation for him. She lowered her head and touched the corner of his mouth where his faint dimple lived. Her lips slid over his. The tip of her tongue traced the crease on the first pass and filled it on the second. She pressed; he drew her in. The kiss was deep and wet and soft. Pleasure blossomed and then lingered.

Calico held his head in her hands, her fingers threaded deeply in his hair. She ran her tongue along the sensitive underside of his lip and traced the ridge of his teeth. She feasted on his mouth. He tasted faintly of peppermint. She realized she probably tasted of whiskey. Kisses should always taste so fine.

Quill did not try to take command, and she was grateful for that. He seemed to understand that she needed to set the pace, and the pace she set was unhurried. She wanted to explore, and for a long time he was content to let her have her way . . . until he wasn’t.

His move was sudden, the effect, arresting. He wrestled his arms free, took Calico by the shoulders, and pushed her
onto her back. While she was struggling up to her elbows, he sat up and shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed it to the foot of the bed, where it slid over the side. His vest was next, and it went the way of his jacket.

“Now you,” he said, turning on her.

Calico’s eyes widened at the predatory gleam in his. She pointed to his chest. “Um. Shouldn’t you take off your shirt?”

He arched one eyebrow. “Do you want help?” When she shook her head, he tugged at the blankets so she could get her arms under them. She wriggled like a worm on a hook until she produced her leather vest. He flipped it over his shoulder. It landed on the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Now unbutton your shirt.”

She hesitated.

“Or I can do it.”

Calico’s hands slipped under the blanket again. Her fingers were clumsy, but the cold did not account for it. What followed consisted of contortions and squirming, but she removed her shirt and showed it to him.

He looked at it, grinned. “You’re a step ahead. Lucky me.”

Realizing he had only told her to unbutton the shirt, Calico threw it at his head.

“Now, see, that’s where you’re different,” he said after he dragged it down over his face. “I figure a lot of women would have fought to get this back.” He pitched it over his shoulder.

“And I figure them for ninnies. You were going to get it anyway.”

He bent his head and dropped a swift kiss on her parted lips. “Yes, indeed. I surely was.” Quill removed his shirt and held it up. “In the interest of fairness.” He gave it the same careless toss he had given hers, but before he lay beside her again, he took off his boots.

Calico regarded his feet with a raised eyebrow. “What about your socks?”

“My feet will get cold.” When she continued to stare at them unsympathetically, he shrugged, and yanked them off. There was no way Calico was going to hold on to the covers
after that, which, he supposed, had been her plan all along. The inevitable tangle happened then, but compromise eventually begat comfort.

Quill’s hand curved around Calico’s waist. With minimal pressure at his fingertips, he urged her closer. He plucked at the fabric he encountered. “Are you wearing a union suit?”

“It was cold outside.”

Shaking his head, Quill found the uppermost button. He paused and whispered, “I’m better with corset strings.”

“I’m sure,” she said dryly.

“But I know how these work.”

Calico didn’t say a word. There was a hitch in her breath as he unfastened the first button. His fingertips scraped her skin. She expected to see sparks. By the time he’d finished unfastening all the buttons, she expected her flesh to ignite.

His hand slipped inside the flannel and lay against her rib cage. His thumb made a pass just short of the underside of her breast. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t touched her breast; it only mattered that it felt as if he had. Her nipple swelled. She wanted him to make another pass with his thumb, this one directly over her aureole. She wanted his thumbnail to flick the little soldier until it stood at attention. Every pass he made brought him closer, and then he was cupping her breast. It would be now, she thought, closing her eyes. It would be now.