Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch

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      Chapter Two

      Cale was so shocked by the unexpected sight and feel of the female pressed up against him that he stood immobilized, his arm crushed to her heaving bosom, his pistol still crammed against her throat. He couldn’t say he’d been surprised often in his thirty-two years of hard living. But the woman’s unexpected arrival at his door sure ’nuff stunned the hell out of him.

      Her fresh clean scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he had to try hard not to breathe her in. The feel of her lush body clasped familiarly to his was a vivid reminder that he hadn’t been with a woman since he couldn’t remember when.

      He would have predicted that this refined, delicate-looking female would keel over and faint dead away—or at the very least, wail, whimper and beg for release. But she didn’t. The lady obviously had a stronger constitution than he would have presumed. He liked that about her, among other things—like the way she felt in his arms. But she was either amazingly courageous for coming here, or incredibly foolish. He didn’t know which.

      Although the woman looked as harmless as a fly, he didn’t release her. She could be the distraction that preceded the springing of a trap. Some sneaky weasel could be lurking in the hall, waiting to blow Cale to smithereens.

      “Skeet,” Cale whispered, then angled his head toward the partially opened door.

      The dog trotted across the room and cut around the corner so sharply that he slammed into the woman’s legs before searching out trouble in the hall. A moment later he returned to sniff at the woman’s skirts.

      No doubt Skeet was as unfamiliar with the perfumed scent of a citified woman as Cale was. Usually Cale’s reputation and profession worked as effectively as repellent to send decent women running in the opposite direction—often screaming. He was, after all, a hired gun, the circling vulture of Judge Parker’s brand of justice, and a half-breed to boot. Although the Cherokee had been labeled as one of the five civilized tribes in Indian Territory, most folks regarded all Indians—himself included—as heathens to be avoided and confined to reservations.

      Which made it all the more baffling as to why this lovely, obviously well-bred woman was here.

      “Whaddaya want, lady?” Cale growled menacingly.

      She appeared so badly shaken that he figured he’d scared the wits clean out of her. Well, good. If she didn’t have more sense than to come knocking on the door of a man of his reputation, she needed a good scaring.

      “I—I…have a p-proposition for you, sir,” she panted.

      Thick Louisiana accent, he noted. He wondered if this little Southern belle realized she was way out of her league when dealing with him. If she didn’t know it yet, she would soon. Even he knew it was taboo for gently bred ladies of quality to consort with men like him. If she wanted to keep her reputation intact she needed to get the hell away from him—fast.

      When it finally dawned on Cale what she’d said he glanced down into her pale face—and nearly drowned in the depths of the most remarkable violet eyes he’d ever seen. A thick fan of curly lashes framed those spellbinding pools, which sparkled as if lit from within. Her peaches-and-cream skin was blotched with color—an outward manifestation of the fear that was streaming through her. ‘Course, he could feel her heartbeat hammering like a tomtom against his forearm, so there was no question that he’d frightened her badly.

      “Proposition?” he echoed. “What the hell kind of proposition?”

      She gulped audibly and tried to force a smile, but he noticed the expression wobbled on the corners of her Cupid’s-bow lips. And damn, what a sweet, inviting, sensuous mouth she had, too. He was tempted to steal a taste while he had the chance. For sure, this was likely the one time in his life he’d ever be this close to sophisticated feminine perfection.

      This little bundle of lavender satin and lace had it all—the delicate skin and bone structure, the curvaceous body, the beguiling face and a coil of silver-blond hair that reminded Cale of trapped moonbeams. His rough handling had caused one side of her coiffure to come unwound, leaving two thick, curly strands dangling on his shoulder—just close enough for him to get a whiff of their clean scent.

      Why had the personification of every man’s sweetest dream rapped on his door, offering him a proposition? What the hell was this? Some kind of cruel joke? Hadn’t he been ridiculed because of his mixed heritage often enough without her showing up to remind him of who and what he was?

      Suspicion clouded Cale’s mind again. He wondered if some spiteful renegade who wanted to launch him to hell had paid her to set him up. “Skeet, guard the door,” he ordered gruffly.

      With ears laid back and an unwelcoming snarl, the dog obeyed instantly, sinking down on his haunches in the hallway. Cale kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. When he shifted to pat the woman down, ensuring that she wasn’t packing hardware, she squawked in offended dignity.

      “Now see here, sir! There is no call to manhandle me! I only came for a chat. Any fool can see I’m not the slightest threat to you.”

      “Where’re you from, princess?” he asked as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her gown to check for stashed weapons in her soft kid boots. Again she squealed indignantly when his hand touched her leg. He ignored her and completed his search. When he was assured she was hiding nothing but her seductively curvaceous body, he dropped the pistol still trained on her and slid it into its holster.

      She made a big production of fluffing the wrinkles—caused by his manhandling—from the sleeve of her gown. Then she looked down that pert little nose at him. “I swear, I’ve never met a more suspicious man. Do you greet all your guests with a gun to the chin and a swift frisk?” she asked with a huff.

      “I don’t usually have guests, only intruders,” he reported as he motioned for her to take a chair at the table. “I asked where you hail from.”

      “N’Awlins, though I don’t see that it matters,” she said snippily.

      “Figured as much. That drawl is unmistakable.”

      Hanna took a seat, noting Cale Elliot didn’t do her the courtesy of pulling out her chair the way most gentlemen would. But what did she expect? This rough-edged bounty hunter knew nothing about polished manners and etiquette. Not that she held it against him. She’d had her fill of haughty aristocrats who showered her with effusive flattery and fawned over her in hopes of drawing the interest of a wealthy shipping heiress.

      When Cale straddled a chair—backward—and stared warily at her from beneath his furrowed brow, she realized this was a novel experience for her. He was a novel experience. This brawny bounty hunter, who dressed in worn buckskin, was absolutely nothing like the stuffy gentlemen her father had tossed in her path since she’d blossomed into a woman. There was a wild, dynamic presence about this man that intrigued her.

      Eyes as dark as midnight, surrounded by a hedge of coal-black lashes, bore into her, as if searching out the hidden secrets in her soul. A leather band at the base of his neck anchored his long glossy hair—hair as black and shiny as a raven’s wings. He looked as if he hadn’t been within a mile of a razor in weeks. His dark beard and mustache gave him a most formidable appearance.

      Hanna was certain that even her father might be just a tad intimidated by this ominous-looking creature. She knew for a fact that Cale Elliot was a solid, muscular six-foot-two and two hundred СКАЧАТЬ