by Jill Gregory
“Just hold on a minute,” she cried. Breathing hard, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “I have to think.”
“I thought you wanted to stay warm.”
“Taking off my clothes doesn’t seem like the way to do that!”
He seized her then, and pulled her close. “Trust me—it works.”
For a moment she was dizzy with the nearness of him. Her breasts were thrust up against his chest, the rough flannel of his shirt scraped her tender flesh. His breath was warm on her cheek, and his mouth was only scant inches away from hers...
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered desperately.
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then he spoke flatly.
“It’s Lassiter.”
Snowflakes hurled themselves against the window as he braced himself for her reaction. He knew damn well what was coming. It was always the same.
“Lassiter?” He heard her sharp intake of breath. She jerked back, but not before he’d felt the slamming of her heart against his chest, the shudder of fear jolting through her bones.
“Not... Quinn Lassiter?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“The same.” He watched her grimly. He knew what they said about him, what she would believe just by hearing his name.
Quinn Lassiter, deadliest man in the West. Fastest gunfighter alive. There’s a lump of steel where his heart should be. He kills as casually as most men spit.
She went pale as the snow swirling outside the window. “I’ve heard of you,” she croaked.
He shrugged. “Probably a pack of lies.”
“They say you’ve killed more than twenty men. Is that... true?”
“More or less. But—”
“And they say you shot Johnny the Kid between the eyes, and captured the entire Melton gang single-handed. Is that t-true?”
“I reckon. But—”
“And last spring,” Maura plunged on, her pulse racing, “you fought three gunfights in one morning and killed all three men with only two bullets...”
“It wasn’t anything special,” he growled. As her lips parted and her eyes grew glassy, he lifted a brow. “I reckon this means you are scared of me?”
His hands went to her bare, creamy shoulders, so narrow and vulnerable beneath his fingers. She was tense as a knot of wire. Fear, hesitation, and uncertainty vibrated through her.
“Am I right? Answer me.”
“Scared? Why, no. Why in the w-world should I be scared? It’s only—” Maura jerked back from beneath his hands and bolted off the bed as though she’d been shot from a cannon. She snatched up her nightshirt and held it in front of her like a shield.
“It’s only that I forgot. Completely forgot. You see, I left something on the stove. Burning on the stove. So silly of me... careless, really. I have to go. Or we’ll have a fire. I have to go... take it off the stove...”
“Maura.”
He reached out, seized her wrist, and yanked her back into the bed. Whipping the nightshirt from her limp fingers, he tossed it to the floor again.
“You think I’m going to shoot you?”
“Of course not. Only...”
“You think I’d hurt a hair on your head?”
“N-no, never.” She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “W-would you?”
“No. Never.” He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes. They were gray as slate, but somehow his expression was softer, more rueful than it had been before.
“I’m going to make love to you, angel. Real nice, hot, hang-onto-your-hat love. If you want me to, that is. I’ll keep you warm all night long. Fact is, I’ll make you sweat. I’ll even make you burn.”
“You... will?”
“Yep. And you won’t need clothes, and you won’t need fires.” He slid a hand slowly, languidly down her bare arm and Maura shivered. “That’s a promise.”
About the Author
Jill Gregory is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of more than thirty historical and contemporary novels and has been honored with the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as with back-to-back Reviewer’s Choice awards for Best Western Historical Romance. Her books have been published in more than twenty-four countries. Jill grew up in Chicago and received her bachelor of arts degree in English from the University of Illinois. An animal lover, Jill loves long walks, reading, hot tea on a winter’s day, and the company of friends. She lives in Michigan with her husband, and enjoys her home overlooking the woods where the deer, rabbits, squirrels, and an occasional owl or hawk come out to play. Visit Jill on the web at www.jillgregory.net.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Excerpt : Cold Night, Warm Stranger
About the Author
Cold Night, Warm Stranger