His eyes narrowed at her silky tone. Despite their long ride, she still managed to look appealing with her hair in windswept disarray and her cheeks as bright as apples. He didn't think she needed the exercise.
Drawing his tobacco from his pocket, he began to roll a cigarette. His motions were casual and deliberate as he licked the paper, tamped the end, and lit a match. He watched her from the corner of his eye. He thought he saw her frown through the curling tendrils of smoke.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well what?"
She looked down her long nose at him. "You haven't answered my question."
"Seems to me I did."
He was rewarded to see her chin rise. She looked like a queen sitting up there on her high horse.
"I see," she said. "And I suppose it would also be out of the question to get off this saddle?"
"Now that all depends."
"On what?"
He folded his arms across his chest and blew out a long trail of smoke. "On how well you cooperate, querida."
She stiffened as he mimicked Diego Santana. The idea surprised him at first. He'd spent more hours than he cared to remember hauling Santana's scrawny rear to Carson City and a doctor. The outlaw had been about as companionable as a rattler, and Cord just couldn't see why a woman would get riled up for him.
Then again, after being the butt of so many of Fancy's jokes, he wasn't at all opposed to seeing her spit and claw and lose control for once. He waited expectantly for her outburst.
He was disappointed.
"Really, Marshal," she rallied with a disdainful smile. "I've tried to be delicate about this, but I can see I'll have to put it another way. Might I have a moment of privacy to, er, visit the bushes?"
He felt his face heat. He'd been so bent on bringing her in, he hadn't given much thought to the complications involved. Now he wondered how he was supposed to keep an eye on the woman when she was off taking a... Well, when she was off doing that. And with Zack and Wes dogging his heels, he had to worry about them getting an eyeful too.
"You mean you want to go now?"
"Why, yes. Now would be a rather good time."
He muttered an oath. She was wearing that wicked smirk again, so odds were, she was up to no good. Still, he didn't see how he could refuse her request without sounding like a cad.
"All right. Get down."
"Perhaps you'd care to lend a hand, Marshal." She raised her wrists, and sunbeams glinted off her cuffs like silver rowels. "I fear I'd be rather clumsy in your bracelets."
He jammed his hat back on his head. Tossing aside his smoke, he reached up and locked an arm around her waist. He didn't waste time on ceremony; he just dragged her from the saddle. The air whooshed from her lungs, and she flailed for a moment until she could loop her arms around his neck. Then she hugged him closer. Hooding her eyes, she parted her lips and let her lush curves slide down every inch of his length. He felt his pecker stir. The girl wasn't as helpless as she liked to pretend, he thought darkly.
"Let's get something straight," he growled, wresting himself free. "I'm not interested in what you're giving away. You're wasting your time playing coy with me."
"Have I been coy?" She feigned distress. "Oh, dear. And here I thought I'd been rather direct."
He bit his tongue. She'd been direct, all right. His loins still throbbed where she'd rubbed her hips against them. But that was what she wanted, right? To start him thinking with his poke?
It occurred to him then he'd be in for one hot and sticky ride if he didn't rein himself in. He needed to do something—anything—to keep his concentration. Making her look less like a female might help. He could rest a whole lot easier if her bawdy charms weren't luring bounty hunters and woman-starved renegades.
Or his brothers.
He grimaced at the thought.
Besides, he'd started to wonder what those bawdy charms were hiding from him. He suspected that more was concealed beneath Fancy's skirts than long legs and firm buttocks.
The sound of a snapping twig jerked him from his musings.
"Something wrong, Cord?" Zack asked, halting beside him.
"Yeah. You look ready to burn some gunpowder," Wes said, his speculative gaze traveling from Cord's squared jaw to Fancy's fluttering eyelashes.
"Nothing's wrong, boys." He managed to keep his voice even. "Did you bring any spare duds, Zack?"
"Yeah. I got an extra shirt and some jeans in my saddlebag."
"Good. Mind if Miss Holleday borrows them? I reckon she'll be more comfortable—and a sight less troublesome—when she sheds those frills."
"You gonna let Miss Fancy wear Zack's clothes?" Wes pouted. "Shoot. He's too long and gangly for his rigging to fit her."
Cord didn't bother to remind Wes of his own height, which was well over six feet and made him a danger to low-flying birds.
"Zack's duds will have to do. In the meantime, you can lead the horses up the hill. Miss Holleday will want her privacy."
Cord could almost hear the "Aw, Cord" of Wes's thoughts.
"Maybe I should stay and keep a watch with you-—on account of Injuns, pumas, and such," Wes said gravely.
"That would certainly ease my mind," Fancy drawled.
She shared a look with the boy that made Cord fear for his brother's innocence—-if, in fact, innocent was a term that could ever be applied to Wes.
Fortunately, Zack stepped between them to push a checkered shirt and some faded blue jeans into Cord's hands.
"C'mon, churn head." Zack grabbed Wes's arm. "You aren't wanted here. Three's a crowd."
Cord felt his neck heat. He wasn't sure why, but his brothers seemed to have concluded that he was desperate for a woman. Desperate enough to lose his head—and his job—over one buxom, violet-eyed outlaw. He would have to set them straight about that later.
As Zack dragged Wes around a rocky outcropping, Fancy eyed Cord's saddlebag speculatively.
"I don't suppose you carry any..."
"Leaves?" he finished dryly. "Sure. We got plenty of leaves."
She made a face. "Never mind, Marshal. I'll manage." She held out her wrists. "Now if you'd be so kind...?"
He hiked a brow. "Well now, removing cuffs is a privilege. If you want privileges, you're going to have to earn them."
The ghost of suspicion haunted her face. "Earn them? Just what did you have in mind... Cord?"
The way she purred his Christian name wasn't lost on him. No doubt she'd had similar conversations before with lawmen—all of which she'd finished on her back. The thought annoyed him somehow. He sure as hell wouldn't do her that way.
"Tell you what," he said, tossing Zack's clothes over his shoulder and fishing in his pocket for the key. "We'll make a deal. You hand over your weapons, and I'll keep the cuffs off."
He unsnapped the manacles, and their eyes locked. Hers turned smoky blue with triumph.
"My weapons?" she repeated archly. Raising her hands to the sun, she made a great pretense of studying her fingernails. "Well, I suppose I could break them off for you, if you insist."
That girl. She has more nerve than a toothache. He knew she was armed. The only reason he hadn't frisked her so far was because he felt uncomfortable about such a search in front of his brothers. They were gone now, though, and her cuffs were off. And so too were his kid gloves.
He reached for his Colt. His draw was so fast that her blood was still draining from her face when he finished.
"Yep," he said. "I insist. Next you can hand over that .32 you carry in your boot and the knife you've stashed in your collar. Oh, and don't forget the pins in your hair. I reckon they could stab a man's eye out in half a second or less."
Fancy felt her heart crawl slowly north from her toes. How the devil could Rawlins draw so fast? And how did he know about the stiletto? Only iron self-discipline kept her from groping behind her neck to see if the knife's sheath had jarred loose during their ride. She suspected there was little she could do except kiss the knife good
-bye, but she really hated giving up without a fight.
"I'd like to help you, Marshal, really I would," she said in her sweetest, beast-soothing voice. "But Sheriff Applegate already confiscated my knife and my .32. He said I might hurt myself."
Rawlins snorted. "I think you've got your facts all tangled. Now, we can stand here trading whoppers till sundown, but I'm hungry. My patience wears mighty thin when my belly feels hollow. Nevada may want you alive, but they didn't say anything about teaching you some respect for the law. So what's it going to be?"
Fancy's eyes narrowed. She suspected that Rawlins didn't make idle threats. Perhaps she should count herself lucky. After all, he hadn't ripped off her clothes to search her yet.
Even so, there was a part of her—a lonely, hurting part—that wondered why Rawlins wasn't eager to grope beneath her gown. Whether farmer or banker, railroadman or sailor, every man, without exception, gawked at her breasts, leered at her buttocks, and tried to put his hands on her.
So why didn't Cord Rawlins?
She remembered the train and how he'd ignored her best efforts to entice him. In the jail, he'd looked more irritated than interested when she'd rubbed her hips against his. What was wrong with her that he found her so unappealing?
On second thought, what was wrong with him?
Deciding to find out, she donned her best disarming smile.
"All right, Cord. You win," she lied. "But you can hardly blame a girl for trying."
She bent at the waist and extended her right leg. Pointing her toes, she raised her skirts, taking extra care to expose the creamy flesh below her drawers. She ran a suggestive hand down her calf before drawing the Smith & Wesson from the holster inside her boot.
"Toss it aside."
She obeyed, continuing to smile.
Straightening leisurely, she smoothed stray curls from her neck and reached for her collar. His suspicious gaze followed every movement of her hand as she withdrew the stiletto, dangled it suggestively before her rocking hips, then let it plunge into the earth near her gun.
She thought his breaths had quickened, but it was hard to gauge the rise and fall of his chest beneath his linen duster.
Sliding her fingers through her hair, she plucked the four-inch pins from the mass one by one. The tendrils delighted in their freedom, bouncing and slithering over her shoulders to sway against her breasts. She shook her head, and the remaining strands cascaded down her back. She let the pins trickle through her fingers.
"Shall I continue?" she purred.
He eyed her the way he might have eyed a loaded pistol. "Continue what?"
"Well, I'm assuming you want all my weapons," she replied in velvet tones. "And some of them are... well, not as close to the surface as the others."
"Get on with it, then."
Fancy hid her disappointment. She had hoped the thought of her nakedness would make him sweat. Or make his pants bulge. The very least it should have done was make his gun-hand quake! Instead, he looked as steadfast as an oak. A traitorous side of her admired his restraint, but the rest of her was miffed. Could she have underestimated the love that Cord Rawlins still felt for his wife?
The idea unaccountably troubled her, so she pushed it aside. There wasn't a man alive who could resist a willing woman. She simply had to work harder on Rawlins.
Brushing aside her hair, she made a great show of unfastening her bodice and tossing aside the hollow buttons one by one. A pity she had to lose them; they had served her well in the past, hiding small stolen jewels.
Next she raised her shoulders, executing her most provocative shrug. Her silk poplin bodice fluttered to her waist. The alabaster tops of her breasts were revealed, and she waited expectantly for his reaction.
He never batted an eye.
She did, in disbelief.
Freshening her smile with the tip of her tongue, she reached for the hooks of her skirt. A sultry, well-rehearsed wiggle shed the gown, and it rustled into a magenta puddle at her feet. She swayed her hips to shake out the pleated flounces and lace-edged train of her jaconet petticoat.
Again, no visible response from Rawlins.
She considered walking over and slapping him a time or two, but that would have been akin to admitting defeat.
Hiking her buttocks, she bent at the waist. Her bosoms all but spilled from her stays as she reached into her petticoat's hidden pockets. A pouch of sewing needles, a knuckle duster, a pair of files, and a straight razor soon joined her growing arsenal. She even tossed in her ring shiner and the widdy she used to jimmy locks on hotel doors and traveling trunks.
Rawlins looked vaguely amused.
Fancy barely mastered her scowl.
Slipping the silk ties at her waist, she stepped from her petticoat. All that remained now were her corset, chemise, and drawers. The latter hid the tops of her stockings, which camouflaged her derringer and a small bottle of laudanum. She kept the sleeping draught as a precaution against aggressive admirers. Seven years ago, when Diego had rescued her from the whorehouse, she had vowed never to return to her mother's way of life. The laudanum—and the derringer—had allowed her to keep that vow. She had shared no man's bed other than Diego's in all that time.
She cast a sidelong glance at Rawlins. To keep her weapons secret, she had to keep her drawers on. However, they didn't appear in immediate danger, judging by the lack of interest on his face. She vowed to scratch his eyes out if he yawned.
"Satisfied?" She barely kept the caustic edge from her voice.
His stare drilled into her bodice. "What's that strung around your neck?"
"You mean this?" She touched her silver chain with a sheepish kind of reverence. Diego had never had much patience for her superstitions, and she suspected that no-nonsense Rawlins would feel the same.
"It's nothing. Just a necklace."
"I can see that. What's hanging from the end?"
She blushed. The last thing she wanted was to give Rawlins the same ammunition that Diego had used to wound her. Breathing deeply, she swelled her breasts to their best advantage, and the chain slithered into her décolletage.
"It's nothing, Marshal. Nothing of value. But you're welcome to come see for yourself."
He frowned and stalked closer. She caught her breath. She hadn't dreamed he would take her up on the invitation!
His hand plunged into her corset, and she had to bite back a squeal, willing herself not to retreat when his yank retrieved the chain. The attached medallion flashed like a beacon in the sun's white-gold rays.
His dimples began to show.
"Two bits?" His infuriating shamrock eyes danced a jig. "You punched a hole in a two-bit piece?"
She felt her face flame. If his Peacemaker hadn't been pointed at her ribs, she might have told him to board the next train to Hades.
"I told you it was nothing of value," she retorted with as much disdain as she could muster.
"That you did, darlin'." He chuckled, letting the coin flop back against her breasts. "Imagine me not taking you at your word."
She really wanted to punch his lights out then.
"Got anything else hidden in there?"
She sniffed. "Why bother to ask? You clearly won't believe me. Why not just rip off my underclothes and see for yourself?"
"I reckon you'd like that."
"I most certainly would not!"
"No?" The amusement faded from his eyes. Shaking his head, he holstered his Colt. "You're a fine piece of work, Fancy Holleday."
He retreated to a safer distance, but his hand hovered ever-ready near his gun. "Go on. Do your business." He tossed her Zack's clothes. They nearly hit her in the face.
"And be quick about it," he called as she stomped off toward a tree. "I'm not going to have you parading around naked in front of my boys."
The contempt in his voice made her wince. She quickly squared her shoulders.
Why should she care what some Texas chawbacon thought about her? Cord Rawlins wouldn't have known a desirable
woman from a wooden Indian. She should have realized she was wasting her time on a man who'd spent more hours in a saddle than a bed. Besides...
She sulked, hardly conscious of her pout.
...the man had dimples.
Chapter 5
As Fancy waved her nose in the air and stalked toward the tree, Cord discreetly adjusted his chaps. His pecker throbbed so hard, he feared his fly would burst. He'd started sweating too. He'd heated up hotter than a fox in a forest fire, but he didn't dare shrug off his duster. He'd be damned if he'd let her see how she'd gotten to him again.
Chafing inside and out, he grimaced. Half of him wanted to take a switch to her behind; the other half wanted to follow her into the bushes and find out if she were really worth the tumble. How in tarnation had he let some snippy little tease fire up his blood? It wasn't as if he'd never seen a half-bared breast before.
Many burlesque shows played the cattle trails between Fort Worth and Abilene, Kansas. In the last two years Uncle Seth's drovers had dragged Cord to them all, but their good intentions had been for naught. He hadn't been able to free himself from the specter of Bethany. Once in a while, when he got drunk enough to see double, he could bring himself to crawl into a woman's bed. Using a faceless body had never set well with him, so he would quickly slink out again, hating himself ten times worse when the act was over. God knew, he didn't want to go on feeling ashamed of a need that was so natural, but he didn't know how to forgive himself. And he didn't know how to let Beth go.
His throat tightening, he let his eyes stray once more to Fancy. She was a woman. What would she think if she knew his seed was poison? Chances were, she'd run screaming through the bushes. Hell, she'd avoid him like a pestilence, then. If he went and told her that he'd killed his wife, he could curb her wanton ways and get himself some peace.
The problem was, peace was the last thing he wanted.
He smiled grimly at himself, at the weakness that had brought him so much grief. Fancy Holleday was a long-legged, sable-haired hellion who filed her nails on a whetstone and clawed a man's heart for fun. Every now and then, he had to tell himself that. Reminding his pecker that she was his prisoner and that he just couldn't have her didn't seem to be cooling him off. He still burned with longing when he thought of those rounded buttocks. The memory of her lilac scent, so sweet and alluring on the wind, was enough to make him groan.
Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One) Page 42