Wild Enough For Willa. Ann Major

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      She screamed and screamed. Somebody else was there—a wiry, sickly looking fellow with haunted eyes and greasy, spiked red hair. Moonlight glinted off something black in his hand.

      Brand dove behind her, using her as a shield.

      She was staring up into stormy gray eyes. “Don’t shoot my baby!”

      Gunshots. Little bits of concrete falling onto her face.

      They were all gone. Except McKade looming over her, his contemptuous, piercing gaze more lustful than Brand’s or his men’s. When she struggled, McKade brandished a broken beer bottle near her face, slicing his own finger with those razor-sharp edges. A drop of his blood fell onto her cheek. Who could have illusions about such a man?

      She wanted Brand, who was elegant and golden, Brand whose family was rich and famous and respectable.

      By comparison, McKade was big-boned and rough, his appetites blatantly carnal.

      Brand was her Prince Charming…not…

      Not going to be a baby.

      A tongue of green fire shot out of McKade’s mouth.

      Then Brand, toppled halo and all, returned. The vision caught fire and turned the most livid shade of green.

      She began to scream.

      It was deliciously disconcerting to awake in Mc-Kade’s arms, her lips pleasantly smothered against the villain’s warm, wide furry chest, the very same villain who’d caused her nightmare. Brand had made her do awful things in bed. McKade, who had rescued her, had not forced her to earn that money.

      Then McKade, his voice tense with the strain, said, “Not going to be a baby. What did you mean? Whose baby?”

      “Nobody’s,” she lied, nestling closer because his warmth was so lovely. The last thing she would tell him about was the baby.

      She was pregnant.

      The powerful father of her baby, for all his surface charm, didn’t want her or their child. He would have killed her. McKade had saved her from Brand and other worse dangers in Mexico. He’d saved her baby. But McKade didn’t respect her. A man of his obvious limitations never would. And he certainly wasn’t the fatherly type.

      Not going to be a baby. Oh, yes, yes. She was going to have her baby.

      I saved your cute little ass.

      McKade wanted that cute little ass. He’d paid a thousand dollars for it.

      And he would get it, pregnant or not, if she didn’t get out of town—fast. She couldn’t go home. No telling who Brand had at her aunt’s house waiting for her to return. Too bad for McKade that her purse, her car and her money were at her aunt’s because that meant she needed his. If he was as rich as he said he was, he could get more.

      McKade’s large hand stroked her hair, her back. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

      Safe? When the Baineses controlled Laredo? When Brand had said he’d never let her go? When the rogue who’d found her tied up in Mexico, and bought her because he thought her cheap and awful, held her in his arms? When the brain beneath her mussed curls was spinning worriedly with ideas about how to best him?

      Safe? With him? If he thought that, then he was even more clueless than she’d thought.

      The impossible devil laughed, the pleasant rumble deepening the grooves that bracketed that beautiful, ever so sensual, male mouth.

      Safe? She hardly knew him, but the chemistry or whatever it was that was between them was so volatile they’d almost had sex twice. She felt as if she were a delectable mouse waiting for some big cat to pounce. After Brand, she was afraid of sex.

      She stared up at McKade, and was aware of harshly carved features, of his animal white smile, of that unruly lock of midnight-black hair that tumbled over his brow. A sensible woman would be terrified to bump into a man like him in a dark alley.

      Sensible? Nobody had ever accused Willa of that failing.

      Safe? The sooner she outwitted this beguiling devil and got out of his clutches, the better.

      “Thirsty,” she whispered, shuddering against his chest so he’d go, so she could think, if that’s what her churning mental processes could be called.

      He left her, splashed water into a glass in the bathroom, but returned too soon, the mattress dipping beneath his weight once more.

      He lifted her into a sitting position again, holding her against his heated length while she sipped from the glass. When she’d gulped it all down, he set the glass aside and continued to hold her.

      Leave. Leave.

      Of course, he didn’t. His head was too thick-boned and dense for telepathy to work. Slowly, shyly, she became aware of that heavily muscled, big-boned body against hers, aware of his heat seeping inside her, aware of her nipples hardening against his massive chest. Meltingly pleasant sensations rippled through her.

      She sighed blissfully. Then she caught herself.

      Aware of her response, he tensed.

      It was just the terror of her nightmare that made her so vulnerable. That made him feel so good…so natural. So right. She’d been shy about sex…even with Brand, only letting him because she’d loved him so much. Only playing the games he’d wanted later because she’d wanted to win his love.

      Letting a man hold her like this wasn’t sex. Still, it was exciting. Her feelings were like those of a seventeen-year-old girl with a first crush. How, after all she’d been through, all he’d put her through, could she feel…It was too soon after Brand.

      He saved you.

      McKade.

      The clever rascal was using that to his own advantage.

      “I’m okay,” she said, so he would leave.

      “Good.” His voice was gruff. He almost pushed her away as he shoved himself up from the bed. “No more bad dreams, promise?”

      The minute he stood up, his wide muscular shoulders were silhouetted against the light from the window. Suddenly, irrationally, she ached to have him back. “What do you want from me?”

      “Sex. A thousand dollars’ worth.”

      “And that’s all?”

      “Of course.”

      “Then why didn’t you take—”

      “All in good time. When you feel better.”

      “I’m surprised you have any qualms.”

      “I want to get my money’s worth.”

      “You’re vile.”

      “And you’re such an excellent judge of character.”

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