Wild Enough For Willa. Ann Major

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СКАЧАТЬ please don’t do murder.

      Muffled male curses and scuffling sounds broke through her muzzy consciousness, and she began to fret about McKade again. Oh, dear. Why couldn’t they just cool it? Men were so difficult, such attention-getters. And they were making a horrendous mess that some poor woman would have to clean up.

      “Bastard.”

      “You crazy, sonofa…”

      She knew that tone. McKade was getting mad. Really mad. A fearsome, yet thrilling vision of a huge powerful street warrior, holding a broken beer bottle, towering over her, ready to do battle for her, rose in her mind’s eye.

      “What the hell did you think you were doing? A gun? In Mexico?”

      Shrill hysterical laughter. The boy’s. Then his whining voice. “What do I have to lose?” He sounded desperate.

      There was a great clump. They must’ve hurled each other to the floor again. Bodies rolled. She heard grunts, fists slugging flesh again.

      And then silence.

      McKade? Was he hurt?

      More likely, the boy was dead.

      They’d put McKade behind bars.

      Curiosity, not concern for McKade, got the best of her. She pulled sheets and blankets around her and rushed into the living room. McKade was sprawled on top of the skinny redhead. The two men’s entwined bodies lay beside a toppled chair, a fallen lamp and shards of glittering glass. Not that either of them were cut. McKade, his silver eyes wild with the lust of battle, was stretching a hand toward the gun that lay six inches beyond his reach.

      No man in such a mood could be trusted with a gun. Certainly not McKade. Quick as a flash, she stepped on his wrist and reached down and snatched the weapon away.

      He yowled. “Give me that!”

      She jumped to safety. “Get off him, you big bully.” Then she scooted backward toward the bedroom. Not that she stopped her bossy scolding. “You’re twice his size! You’ll kill him!”

      “Give me the gun and get back in the bedroom where you belong.”

      “And let you blow that poor child’s brains out?”

      “For the last time! Mind your own business, Willa!”

      “You saved me last night from my own stupidity. I’m returning the favor.”

      McKade lunged. She raced for the bedroom and locked the door behind her. The gun dangled from her fingers and she opened a narrow glass door that led out onto the balcony.

      Where to hide this awful instrument of death?

      Where? There were four stories down to bushes, dirt and cactus, where it could be buried.

      Where? Nowhere!

      Besides, if she dropped the gun, it might explode or something. Like men, loaded guns were not to be trusted.

      Leaving the glass door open, she ran back inside and nearly tripped over the red dress. McKade had a key in the lock of the adjoining door. Grabbing the horrid heap of silk flounces, she dashed into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.

      She eyed the gun, scanned the dull, sterile, white-tiled cubicle. Where? Where?

      Nowhere.

      Somewhere a door slammed open. “Willa!” thundered that most irritating of bullying voices.

      She knew that yowl. Knew that fist pounding her bathroom door. The door rattled alarmingly.

      “Just a minute, dear,” she cooed with wifely, saccharine sweetness.

      “Willa!” he muttered. “Quit acting like a fool!”

      She stared at the black gun.

      Where?

      Absolutely nowhere. Still, she had to put the gun somewhere. So in desperation, she opened the toilet tank and dropped it into the water.

      Plop. Gurgle. Lots of satisfying bubbles.

      Did bullets rust? She scooted the lid back in place, seized the postage-stamp bit of silk and wriggled into it as best she could. As she adjusted the flounces that barely covered her derriere, McKade kept up his furious pounding. When she was dressed, or rather squeezed into the awful playsuit, frilly skirt and all, she stared at herself in the mirror.

      Oh, dear, dear, dear, said Mrs. Connor.

      Breasts. Legs. All those wild curls. That drowsy look in her hot, sexy eyes. And that telltale blush that betrayed an alarming amount of excitement. Terrible as last night had been, there was nothing like danger and drama to give life a keen edge, or to make a girl who’d been blinded by love see clearly.

      Brand had been the biggest mistake of her life. He hadn’t respected her, hadn’t seen past her sexy, good looks.

      She studied her reflection. Cheap. Tarty. Come on, honey.

      But cute.

      No wonder a man of McKade’s low sexual instincts had formed the same opinion Brand had had, that she was a party girl who would put out.

      Do not concede a moral inch.

      Thank you, Mrs. Connor. McKade had no right to judge her on her appearance. It was most unreasonable. But she would use it. Maybe if she could get his mind on sex, she could outthink him.

      Don’t get all conceited because you turn him on.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Connor,” she whispered to the tart in the mirror.

      Willa, of course, prided herself on being unreasonable. Most unreasonable. After all, it was a woman’s prerogative. If McKade was such a fool not to see the intelligent, vital woman inside the tarty, bimbo getup; if he was such a cad he’d take advantage of a desperate woman he deserved whatever he got.

      Her wanton reflection jumped—due to McKade’s bellowing and male bluster on the other side of the door. She watched the door rattle, almost relishing his thunder.

      How long could the big lug keep that up? Such fierce male energy—it was rather exciting having all that bluster and determination directed at her. She decided to wait and see how long he could rant.

      For no reason at all, she wondered what he’d be like in bed. All that energy. Would he attack? Or be gentle? He certainly had a lot of bad-boy passion. She turned him on, too.

      Only when McKade stopped slamming his fist against the door, and all got quiet outside, did her curiosity get the better of her.

      She fluffed her hair, threw back her head, opened the door, and went into the bedroom in the tight red dress. McKade’s eyes blazed, so she wiggled her hips like a burlesque queen, strutting almost…just to get his goat…and to unhook the wires to his brain, too. McKade liked it when she strutted her stuff.

      One minute, the men СКАЧАТЬ