by Janzen, Tara
“Move like . . . yeah, just like that.” He groaned again and gently rocked against her, his mouth settling into the curve of her neck. “Ah, Nikki, what you do to me.”
“Rios and Rios,” she said breathlessly, melting under the sweet pressure he applied. “No one knows Nicolita Rios. We could go down and cover . . . Panama.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go back down south,” he murmured against her skin, his hand sliding under her shirt.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.” Words became more difficult to find with each tender caress of his fingers across her breasts.
“How about upstairs?”
“Anywhere.”
“Good. Now forget about Panama and all the trouble you’ve got in store for me”—eyes warmed by a sultry light lifted to meet hers—“and think about loving me the way I love you, Nicolita. Way down deep inside, every day and every night, through all the bad times and good times to come.”
“This is one of the good times, Josh,” she said softly, feeling the security of his love wrap around her future and make it bright.
“Yes, Nikki,” he agreed with a sly smile teasing his mouth. “This is one of the really, really good times.”
Later, in the fading light of day, as they lay facing each other on the bed in the middle of the room, Nikki gently traced his scar with her finger.
“Why did you let me think all those wild things about you that first year?”
“Because you were young and impressionable, and I was trying like hell to impress you.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm.
“Why?”
He laughed. “Because you were too cocky and too pretty to ignore, and too young to take to bed.”
“And a year made all the difference?”
“You were still too young to take to bed”—he shook his head ruefully—“but by then you were impossible to ignore. Three more years didn’t change that. A hundred years won’t change it. You’re mine, Nikki. I stopped questioning why a long time ago.”
Sliding her hand around his neck, she drew him close into her arms. “So did I, Josh,” she whispered. “So did I.”
* * * * * * * *
Read on for excerpts from Outlaw Carson and Shameless
Outlaw Carson
One
“I can’t work with the man,” Kristine Richards announced. She tossed the memo from the dean of the university onto the piles of clutter on her desk, starting a small avalanche of papers.
Jenny, her elderly graduate assistant, crouched down and retrieved a few of the letters, stuffing them into her arms, already filled with many other important papers.
“Won’t, not can’t,” Jenny said, looking around for someplace to stash the unattended-to business. No empty space magically appeared. Sighing in resignation, Jenny opted for the last resort, collating the correspondence by using the thousand or so books lining the walls of the office. She made sure an edge of each envelope stuck out from the volumes. Within a minute, the shelves looked like they might take off and fly.
“Okay, have it your way,” Kristine agreed easily. “I won’t work with the man.”
“The university is already into Carson’s Tibetan project up to their ears,” Jenny said, “and they want to make sure the findings get published. You’re the logical choice for his assistant.”
“Then they should have made darn sure I was the one chosen to go to Tibet in the first place. But no, they sent Harry Fratz, and Harry caught some god-awful bug. Lucky for Harry.”
Less than a year ago, Kristine had been stunned and thrilled to learn that her employer, Colorado State University, had been selected to help fund—and then share in the glory—of an ambitious archaeological study. A renegade archaeologist named Carson planned to compile an inventory of ancient Tibetan monasteries, temples, and shrines. Kristine had been certain she’d be picked to go along as Carson’s assistant. No one on the university’s staff was more qualified, least of all Harry—except by virtue of his gender. But they’d picked Harry, who had barely lasted two months, and now the whole expedition was in shambles, an international disaster.
They had a lot of nerve, she fumed, trying to drag her in on the tail end of Carson’s Catastrophe, as the history department now labeled the project. The whole damn thing should have been Richard’s Reward from the start. She knew more about Tibet, fact and fiction, than Harry had ever even bothered to imagine.
She sorted through the junk on her desk, finally coming up with a chocolate chip cookie. She blew a little dust off one edge and took a tentative bite.
“You’re going to die someday,” Jenny admonished her.
“I’ll be in good company. What else does the university have to offer their finest Asian historian for summer employment, besides sorting out somebody else’s mess and babysitting the glory boy who made it?”
“Probably a pink slip.”
Kristine choked on her cookie. Jenny patted her on the back.
“There, there, honey. I hear the community college is looking for a history teacher.”
Kristine raised her watery eyes to meet Jenny’s. She didn’t doubt her assistant’s summation of the situation. The older woman’s uncanny intuition had never failed her when it came to the inner workings of the university.
“That’s . . . blackmail,” she gasped, reaching for her cold cup of coffee.
“You’ll be dead before you’re thirty,” Jenny said as she watched Kristine use a pencil to stir the sugar up from the bottom.
Kristine swallowed a sip or two anyway. “Still in good company.”
“But you’ll probably live through the summer,” Jenny went on. “It’s up to you whether you do it working on Kit Carson’s Tibetan findings or job hunting.”
“Blackmail,” Kristine muttered. Carson, she thought. Kit Carson. Even his name rankled her. What kind of fool name was Kit Carson?
A famous fool’s name, she silently admitted. He’d come out of the vastness of Asia nearly ten years ago, dazzling museum directors from Beijing to Calcutta with the extent of his knowledge and the rarity of his archaeological finds. He was a virtual unknown who’d made a name for himself by being part of the spectacular excavation of the burial tomb at Lishan in China, with its amazing collection of thousands of lifesize terra-cotta warriors; a renegade Buddhist monk with unparalleled access to the secrets of the Far East.
She’d never met him. No one she knew had, except for poor, dumb Harry, and the hospital wasn’t allowing visitors. Still, you couldn’t get three historians in the same room without his name coming up, usually on the end of “That damn barbarian.” It took only two archaeologists to reach the same consensus, both of them praying Carson wouldn’t be the first to be allowed to excavate any of Tibet’s hallowed ground. Tibet was an archaeologist’s dream, but no one could do more than list any artifacts that were visible. It was illegal to dig at any of Tibet’s religious sites.
Carson was too unorthodox to fit in the realm of academia, and he’d lost his reputation shortly after he’d gotten it. He didn’t have a degree in anything, not even the equivalent of high school, if the rumors were correct. And if what they were hearing from China was true, while supposedly cataloguing Tibet’s shrines and temples, Kit Carson had crossed the final line into out-and-out grave robbing.
Kristine groaned and dropped her head on the desk. The university must be desperate to threaten her with dismissal. Any tenured professor would refuse to work with Carson on the grounds of protecting his or her reputation, now that Carson had slipped into infamy. Unfortunately Kristine didn’t have tenure or a reputation. “Publish or perish” went the old adage, and she’d be damned if she perished this close to a full professorship.
“Kristine, dear?”
“Yes?” she replied without lifting her head.
“That green rag you’re wearing today is really too awful for words. I’ve told you a hundred times you’re a winter.”
“Thank you, Jenny,” she muttered into the papers cushion
ing her face. Carson. Kit Carson. She groaned again.
* * *
The first two trunks arrived at her house the first Monday after finals. The second pair came on Tuesday. By Wednesday, Kristine and the deliveryman were on a first-name basis. The university, through Dr. Timnath, the head of her department, had insisted she accept Kit Carson’s luggage, assuring her she’d need the trunks for her research and requesting that she be discreet. She’d countered with a mention of tenure, priding herself on being able to discreetly work it into the conversation three times. She was beginning to wonder, though, if the owner of the luggage was ever going to make a personal appearance, and whether or not she dared break off the heavy iron padlocks to see what was inside the fascinating old cases. One look at them had convinced her, albeit belatedly, of the wisdom of taking on the Carson project. Who knew what treasures lurked in the trunks’ cavernous depths?
“Now, Bob,” she said, Wednesday morning, yawning and scrawling her name across three of the tiny lines on his delivery sheet. Her second signature missed the lines completely. With her free hand she tightened her grip on the one hundred and twenty pounds of pure ugly she called a dog and most people called a beast. “I want you to notice I’m giving you an extra signature here. If you show up tomorrow morning, please put the trunks on the deck without knocking or ringing the bell. Okay?”
“It’s against the rules, Kristine,” the deliveryman said nervously, keeping one eye on her mastiff.
“Come on, Bob. Live dangerously. Bend the rules.” And let her have at least one morning of sloth, she prayed. Last night there had been a welcome home party for Harry to celebrate his hospital release. She’d stayed much too late in a vain attempt to corner the guest of honor. He’d looked far healthier than she would have guessed for a man newly risen from his deathbed, and he’d avoided her like the plague.
“Okay,” Bob finally said. “I’ll try it . . . once.”
“You’re a great guy.” She flashed him a smile, using the last of her strength.
Half an hour, two aspirin, and one mug of coffee later, Kristine draped herself over the open refrigerator door and searched for something edible. Mancos nudged her legs, whining.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Old Mother Hubbard better get something for the cupboard.”
The whining stopped abruptly, and Mancos whirled around, almost knocking her over in the process. He barreled out of the kitchen hell-bent for leather, sliding on the wood floor and letting out a woof that made coffee redundant.
Eyes painfully wide, Kristine shuddered and shook her head, trying to get rid of the ringing in her ears. She heard Mancos hit the dog-door at full speed, followed in the next second by a loud, deep, “Aaiieey-yah!”
“Dammit, Bob,” she muttered, slamming the refrigerator door shut and stumbling after the mastiff. She ran through the living room, threw back the curtains, and jerked the atrium door open—to the most amazing sight.
He was fast, she had to give him that, and light of foot, like a highwire artist. And he definitely wasn’t Bob. He was racing along the deck railing, keeping either one step in front of or one step behind Mancos’s snapping jaws. The morning light spilling over the foothills cast him in a golden halo, a color shades paler than the thick, silky hair pulled away from his face and hanging in a roan braid down his back. Shorter strands of dark auburn hair feathered across his cheeks and melded into the winged curves of his brows.
The sleeves of his black tunic were rolled up, revealing dark skin, tightly corded muscle, and more gold bracelets than she could count. A wide leather belt hung low on his hips, banded on one side with the hilt and sheath of a large, wickedly curved khukri, the blade of a Gurkha mercenary. His jeans were tucked into roughly made short boots, nothing more than flaps of leather sewn together with strips of rawhide that were secured with silver hoops at the top. He was a running wind chime, and the music of his quick steps left her stunned.
She really needed to do something to save him, she thought, or her dog, if he went for his knife. Then he saw her, and his flashing grin and sly wink made her instantly aware of a need to save herself.
She stepped backward with a hand to her chest, a blatant gesture of self-defense, and a totally inappropriate action for a contemporary woman living in an age when the only raiding hordes inhabited Wall Street. But the uncivilized look of him conjured up undeniable visions of a long-ago time, when women were women and men were the barbarians who took them.
Barbarian . . . Between one breath and the next she placed him, that damn barbarian, Kit Carson.
“kukur, ahA!” he shouted in a deep voice, watching the dog, but tossing her the chamois bag slung over his shoulder. When Mancos went for the bag, he clapped his hands and shouted again, recapturing the mastiff’s attention. “Hey, dog!”
Kristine caught the heavy bag and clutched it closely, not daring to take her eyes off Carson or the animal so determined to eat him for breakfast. He wasn’t afraid of the slavering, growling beast. The realization went through her with absolute certainty and wavering disbelief. Mancos’s looks alone kept most visitors in their cars, honking their horns. But then he wasn’t most men. He was the outlaw Carson, and she’d bet anything he was no Buddhist monk. Not with that smile.
The dog lunged for his ankle, and Kristine’s fingers tightened around the strap of the bag. The melange of soft textures drew her gaze—the strap was made of silk and the finest leather, and a yard-long auburn braid that matched the color of his hair. Her jaw slackened as she raised her head to stare at him again.
He was pacing the rail now, not running, and Mancos matched him step for step, back and forth across the deck. He was talking to the dog, and the singsong lilt underlying the rough timbre of his voice mingled with the fresh, light sound of his bracelets, mesmerizing the dog and her both. When he hunkered down on the rail, she felt sure Mancos would snap out of it, but he didn’t. Neither did she. The man reached down to scratch behind one of the dog’s rusty-brown ears, and she almost dropped his bag in shock. Then, with seemingly no effort, he stepped off the rail. He didn’t jump or leap. He just stepped, an act of power and grace that told her more about the muscles in his legs than any amount of running on the narrow rail. And he wasn’t even breathing hard.
She wasn’t breathing, period.
“Namaste,” he greeted her. Bracelets, beaten gold and chased in ancient designs, jangled as he touched his palms together. “Good morning.”
“Hi,” she said, but it came out more like the breath she’d lost than a word. Six feet of masculine brawn towered over her, gentled only by the teasing light in his eyes. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, and it was compounded by the energy she felt radiating off him. Renegade, outlaw, or monk, the man had presence in spades.
Kit grinned at the stunned woman. Finally, he mused, the long journey seemed worthwhile. He’d tracked his trunks across the breadth of America, from one fleeting destination to the next, until they’d led him here, to a house and a woman. His fainthearted partners had more than compensated for their irresponsible treatment of the trunks.
He took in her dishabille and the amazement in her eyes, and his smile broadened. If she’d been less beautiful, he would have been too tired. A wild cloud of dark curls tumbled past her shoulders, framing a face of untold delicacy; eyes of a color he’d never imagined, like mountain violets, and the palest skin he’d ever seen, skin delightfully unmarred by the heavy makeup that covered the faces of so many Western women.
“Concubine?” he asked, running his finger along her cheek. She was so soft, so beautiful, so welcome, he sighed. Yes, Shepard and Stein had done well. He graciously forgave them for their cowardice and merely doubled the price of the treasures he’d risked his life to bring them.
Con . . . cu . . . bine, concu-bine, con-cubine. Kristine tried to untangle the word from his accent. When she did, her face flamed, especially where he’d touched her.
“No,” she gasped, then put more force into the word. “No. I
am not a concubine.”
“Not mine?” One eyebrow lifted over spice-colored eyes, spice like cinnamon, dark, rich, and mysterious.
“No. No. Not yours.”
“Too bad, eh?” His grin flashed again, more dangerous than before.
Yes. The word formed in her mind, and she chased it out on rapidly beating wings of panic. “I am . . .” She took a deep breath and tried again. “I am Kristine, Kristine Richards.”
“Kreestine, Kreestine?” he repeated, smiling again to ease her discomfort. Kristine felt anything but eased by the inherently sensuous curve of his mouth and the glimpse of strong, white teeth. Sensuality, she’d learned the hard way, was a thing to be avoided at all costs.
“No, just one Kristine,” she explained when she found her voice again.
“Ah, Kreestine,” He rolled her name off his tongue, putting a lilt on the second syllable. “Very pretty.”
“It’s a—a nice enough name.” she stammered, wondering when her brain was going to kick back in.
“No.” He slowly shook his head and his grin faded. Capturing her chin with a large, rough hand, he tilted her head back, immobilizing her with the gentleness of his touch and the light in his eyes. “Kreestine is pretty,” he murmured, his mouth lowering to hers, his breath warming her lips.
A flood of heat poured down her body at the slight touch. When he sealed his mouth over hers, her last shred of sanity followed. She melted as a masterfully strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, close enough to feel every curve of muscle in his chest and the tautness of his abdomen; close enough to feel the rising tide of his desire and his iron-hard thighs.
Good Lord, she thought through a haze of faintness. His tongue asked for and gained purchase into the recesses of her mouth. He tasted sweet, musky sweet, like honey from a faraway land, and he kissed with an abandon to match the wild flavor, completely, exotically.
Ravished. The indescribable feeling spread through her mind as the moment slipped deeper into fantasy, further from reality. She was being ravished and she really needed to stop it before she decided she liked it.