by Beth Ciotta
He played her like a newly tuned piano, striking all the right chords with a kiss that seduced her heart. Music that had failed her back at the opera house gushed forth with an intensity that left her shaking. Or perhaps the telling lyrics were at fault for her trembling. Blindsided by a staggering realization, she shoved him to arms’ length.
He pinned her with an arrogant stare, causing the music to falter along with her pulse. Her knees gave way and her butt hit the floor. She glared up at him, her lips swollen from his arduous assault. Her heart pounding with a mixture of lust and outrage. “I hate you.”
“That so?” He scooped her up, stalked into the next room, and dumped her onto a massive bed. Covering her body with his own, he kissed her thoroughly, his hands laying claim to her subtle curves.
Struggling only intensified the friction between their bodies. Her nipples hardened beneath the pressure of his muscled chest. Within seconds, fury succumbed to passion. His hand slid between them, working the buttons of her shirt. She tore her mouth from his, her voice a ragged whisper. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you out of these wet clothes.”
Hadn’t he performed a similar deed last night? Erotic images flashed behind her closed lids. He suckled her earlobe, and her mind went blank. Her entire being shuddered with licentious desire.
Lifting his head, he gazed down into her heavy-lidded eyes. “Sure you’re not just a little fond of me, sweetheart?”
She was more than fond of him.
One has given up the fight. Lost body, soul, and mind.
She was in love.
She turned away, not wanting him to see the truth in her eyes. “This is terrible.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He rolled off of her, smoothing his palm down her chemise until it came to rest between her legs. “Think of the amazing benefits.”
“But you won’t let me experience the amazing part unless I agree to marry you.” She wanted him to tug down her trousers, to feel his hand upon her flesh, to take her mind off of the fact that her stomach was tied up in knots.
He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek, sending a sweet shiver down her spine. “We have to talk.”
“Sheriff, come quick!”
“For the love of Pete.” Josh snatched up a spare quilt, covering her just as Oscar skidded over the threshold.
“Whoa!” The barkeep lowered the kerosene lamp to knee level. “I’m sorry … I … ”
“It’s all right, Mr. Pike,” Paris stammered, hoping to downplay the uncomfortable moment. Honestly, she was grateful for the interruption. Well, sort of. “We were just negotiating my rooming situation.”
“Negotiating, my ass.” Sporting a severe frown, Josh turned his attention to the barkeep. “What is it?”
“You best come quick.” Oscar averted his gaze from the bed. “There’s been a shooting at the Lucky Lady.”
“It’s not Mr. Burke, is it?” Paris shuddered to think that another one of Josh’s relatives had suffered harm.
Oscar shook his head and spat over his shoulder. “We should be so lucky.”
Josh pushed off the mattress, adjusted his holster. Clearly he meant to investigate. He’d warned his cousin about the “flying lead.” It occurred to Paris that even though he was no longer official, he still behaved like a lawman. Apparently, protecting others was in his blood.
She remembered suddenly how he’d once voiced his concerns about her singing on stage in front of rowdy drunks. She thought about the cactus slayers. The patrons shooting at the rafters after Red’s performance. Whiskey tends to affect a man’s aim. She thought about her papa, and cringed. Was it possible that Josh had forbidden her to perform at the Desert Moon, not because he thought she lacked talent, but because he worried about her welfare?
But, of course! It was in his nature to protect.
An affectionate warmth spread through her as she watched him stride after Oscar. He had her best interest at heart.
Looking over his shoulder, he cast a parting threat. “You better be here when I get back.”
Sighing, she gave him a mock salute knowing … she wasn’t going anywhere.
It was well past midnight by the time they got Cobb Sprite buried. His partner had wanted the deed done and over. “Things happen,” he’d said. That statement stuck in Josh’s craw. This thing wouldn’t have happened if Lucky Lady patrons had been required to check their guns at the door, or if Niles had kept an eye on his clientele. A professional gambler, he knew how quickly a friendly game of poker could turn sour, but instead of overseeing his establishment, he’d been diddling Red Adams in the back room.
Josh had come by that information after a few inquiries. As to who had actually pulled the trigger, the miners weren’t talking. Everyone, including Cobb’s partner, claimed the shooting was an accident. It’s not as if Josh had the power to do anything even if it had been a true crime.
He wasn’t the law anymore.
The fact rankled more than ever. Doing what came naturally was a tad more difficult without a badge. Niles made sure it was almost impossible, reminding every man within earshot that the nearest official lawman presided several miles south in Florence. Josh let it lie, knowing that the official lawman would be in town come mornin’, and that he had a low opinion of the very man throwing about his name.
Frustrated, he dragged through the front door, stopping short when he spied Paris. He’d been relatively certain she wouldn’t bolt, although a small part of him had worried. The only predictable thing about the wildcat was that she was unpredictable. Finding her asleep, slumped over Mason’s roll top desk, was an almighty relief. He couldn’t fathom chasing after her in this mood. He’d had it up to his eyeballs with her penchant for misadventure and the havoc it wreaked on his nerves. At first he’d simply thought her accident prone. After a full week in her company he knew the reality was far worse.
Trouble plagued her like a curse.
Between Paris, Niles, the flagging Desert Moon, and this lawless town, he had his hands full.
Life was complicated, but damned interesting.
Moving closer, he noticed she’d fallen asleep while scribbling words and musical notes across a sheet of paper. To her right rose a short stack of similar looking papers, displaying groups of lines, notes, and lyrics. Her treasured sheet music. He felt oddly heartened knowing she’d been bringing something to life while he’d been dealing with death. It brought a strange sense of balance and hope to this unchecked region.
Respecting her privacy, he fought the urge to read her scrawled lyrics, doused the lamp, and lifted her into his arms. Damn, she was tiny. A petite, silky-haired minx with more sand than the desert. Feisty, enthusiastic … stubborn. Although she’d changed into one of his dry shirts, she still wore her damp trousers. Did she want to catch pneumonia? He pressed his lips to her forehead, relaxing when he felt no fever.
Wrapping her arms about his neck, she sighed and snuggled closer. “Are you all right?” she asked in a groggy voice. Before he could answer, she sneezed.
She’d survived heat exhaustion only to succumb to a chill, and she was worried about him? Enduring an increasingly familiar skip in his pulse, he pressed her head against his shoulder and carried her into the bedroom. “I’m fine, kid. Go back to sleep.”
Amazingly, she did. Relief blew through him like a cool breeze on a hot day. Yes, he wanted to come clean about the marriage—Lord knows he’d tried a half a dozen times—-and, yes, he wanted to make love to her until neither of them could stand. But he didn’t want to take her until she’d fully recovered from her ailments. He wanted her wide awake and in good health because it was going to be one hell of a ride. He’d promised her amazing. He planned on unforgettable.
Laying her on the mattress, he reached up under the oversized shirt and gently peeled off her trousers, revealing a set of cotton drawers. He’d undressed his fair share of women. Hell, he’d relieved this one of an alluring corset just last night. So why in the thunder di
d it unnerve him to strip Paris out of her man’s clothing? His fingers actually trembled as he untied the waistband of her drawers and rolled the damp fabric over her slender hips.
It occurred to him that this wasn’t just any woman.
This was his wife.
Swallowing hard, he ignored the throbbing in his pants when his callused palms slid over her silky thighs. Don’t think about her smooth skin, her clean, flowery scent. Don’t think about her lying beneath you, naked and writhing.
Yeah, sure.
Muttering curses, he shed his clothes and set his gun on the nightstand before joining her under the covers. Rolling to his side, he breathed in her familiar scent of lilacs while studying the gentle curves of her face. Full lips, small, wide nose, impossibly long lashes … Moonlight filtered through thin curtains, highlighting the freckles sprinkled across her sunburned cheeks. Those freckles did him in. Most women considered the golden flecks unfashionable, choosing to camouflage them with powder. Not Paris. Her concerns differed from any female he’d ever encountered, and that included domestic interests.
Speaking of domestic, what was he going to do with a cook who admittedly didn’t know her way around the kitchen? He’d offered her the job in an attempt to honor Mason’s word while hoping to deter her from working at the Desert Moon period. She’d called his bluff. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or suspicious.
One thing was for sure and for certain, she intrigued him.
He longed to pull her close, to hold her in his arms and soak in her innate vibrancy, but he didn’t dare. Though he’d purposely refrained from relieving her of his shirt, he’d thoroughly exposed her bottom half. A man only had so much restraint. Unfortunately, whether awake or asleep, Paris seemed compelled to test his limits. Mumbling something about gimmicks and matinees, she rolled into his arms, and snuggled her bare bottom against his groin.
Gritting his teeth against the sweet torture, he tightened his arm about her waist, bidding her still. When she settled, he kissed the nape of her neck and willed himself to sleep.
Hours later, he finally drifted into a restless slumber, his dreams riddled with snatches of the past. His ma. His pa. Mason, Celia, and Niles. The best and worst of times. And all in the name of love.
Paris woke at the crack of dawn. A breeze fluttered the muslin curtains of a partially opened window, carrying the scent of newly washed earth. A slash of sunlight warmed her cheeks. She sighed. The first day of her new life. A beautiful, productive day. She’d slept like the dead. She felt refreshed. Energized.
She felt something poking her in the backside.
She smelled sandalwood soap and jerked fully awake, shocked that she was in bed with Josh, her bare butt nestled against his … Oh, no. Not again. She didn’t remember retiring. Didn’t remember him crawling in beside her. How was it that she kept waking in this man’s bed with no memory of the preceding night? “What’s wrong with me?”
She felt him smile against her neck, his voice husky with sleep. “Do you want a list?”
Her breath quickened as his muscled arms flexed and tightened around her bare middle. Skin on skin. Her shirt was bunched up around her waist, and his hand, heaven help her, was splayed over her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.
She squeezed her thighs together to suppress the tingling between her legs.
“How are you feeling?”
Wanton. “Better.” She sneezed.
He groaned. “Go back to sleep.”
How could he think of sleeping at a time like this! So what if she had a teensy cold? They were naked … in bed … together. She felt so small, so feminine, spooned against his large, sinewy form and yet they fit together perfectly. Words like “destiny” and “forever” danced through her mind in the form of a melodic waltz. Her heart pounded in three-quarter time, slow, loud thuds as his breath warmed the back of her neck, awakening every molecule in her body. She’d never been so … aware. Strangely, she wasn’t alarmed as much as curious.
His palm slid to the flat of her stomach, pulling her closer. “Stop squirming.”
She wasn’t squirming. She was feeling the music. Swaying her hips, ever so subtly, in three-quarter time. Not a conscious act, and apparently not so subtle. His splayed fingers singed her skin, kicking up her pulse and altering the waltz to a fandango. Merciful heavens, if he moved his hand lower he could touch her … there, and if she twisted just so she could touch his … he definitely fancied her. The knowledge made her smile. At least she wasn’t alone in this confounding muddle.
I’m in love. She wondered how he’d react if she blurted that admission aloud.
He’d want to get hitched.
The music ceased and her stomach twisted. She’d never forget the way her parents fought. Or the way Athens grieved his wife’s death. Whether you loved too little or too much, the outcome was always the same. Marriage equaled broken hearts and dreams. She refused to set herself up for either fall. No, she would have it all without risking anything. Like Victoria Kensington who traveled the circuit with her manager/lover, she would be unconventional.
She settled into the notion, summoning confidence and a bit of derring-do. Smiling, she rolled over and combed her fingers through Josh’s rumpled hair while admiring the dark shadows and hard planes of his wickedly handsome face.
He lazily opened those hypnotic eyes, held her gaze for an intense moment before focusing on her mouth.
Her pulse raced. Wiggling against the evidence of his desire, she whispered, “I’m not sleepy.”
“No?”
She swallowed hard, hoping he wasn’t going to make this difficult. “Last night you said something about tiring me out.”
He needed no further encouragement. Lightening quick, he flipped her on her back and feasted on her lips.
She was vaguely aware of his fingers working her shirt higher and higher, until—sakes alive—flesh on flesh. Bare breasts to sinewy chest. She was on fire! Moaning, she kneaded the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders, her tongue tangling with his in a heated, sensual dance. She adored the feel of him, the weight of him. The taste of him. Her body tingled with icy-hot shivers when he shifted slightly, trailing his fingers down her cheek, her throat, across the swells of her sensitive breasts. He squeezed her puckered nipple, and she nearly shot off the bed. She grasped his hand, unnerved by the delicious assault on her senses.
He eased away, his hot gaze sparking with desire. “Do you want me to stop?”
She wanted him to go on forever. He inspired provocative thoughts and desires, poignant lyrics and euphonious melodies. He inspired passion. Not trusting herself to speak, she wove her fingers through his disheveled hair and yanked him down for another kiss.
He chuckled, a roguish sound that promised naughty pleasure. He nipped her lower lip, her chin, her earlobe. She groaned, shivering with delight as he planted whisper-soft kisses along her jaw, down her neck, between the valley of her breasts.
He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked.
She gasped, shocked and aroused, the glorious sensation mounting as he lavished attention on both breasts. She moaned and squirmed beneath him, the blood pounding in her ears like a timpani drum. The pounding intensified when his tongue blazed a hot path down her stomach to the hilt of her womanly mound.
She stiffened.
He lifted his head and scorched her face with a smoldering gaze. “Relax, honey.”
Relax? He had to be kidding! Her cheeks blazed as he gently parted her legs. He kissed her soft folds then flicked his tongue over the center of her intimate ache. “Don’t … ”
“What?” Another flick.
“I can’t—”
He anchored her hip with one hand, cupped her breast with the other then ravished her with his mouth.
“—breathe.” She gave over to fabulously wicked sensation, her muscles tightening and quivering with every lap of his tongue. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, unable to control the w
ild bucking of her out-of-control body. Sweat beaded her brow. Tribal music filled her ears, accentuated by the beating of her heart.
Her breath stalled. Her vision blurred. Certain she was going to die; she screamed his name as she reached some indescribable peak, and leapt. She was falling, floating. Drums gave way to chimes. Harps.
Heaven.
“So that was amazing,” she whispered, when she at last found her voice.
“No,” he said, sliding up and positioning himself on top of her. “That was a prelude.”
She stared up into his eyes, her stomach coiling into a knot, anticipation heating her blood. How could it possibly get any better?
She heard distant pounding, a creak of a door. Footsteps.
Josh dropped his forehead to hers. “Remind me to put a lock on that front door before the end of the day.” Muttering curses, he eased himself off the bed.
She caught a glimpse of his sculptured backside before he stepped into a pair of blue jeans and strapped on his holster. Her stomach tightened with desire. “You’re leaving me?” she squeaked. “Now?”
He glanced at the bedroom door while shrugging into a clean white shirt. “Best I go out there before whoever’s making noise comes in here.” He leaned over her, retrieved his gun from the nightstand and banished her pout with a deep kiss. Easing away, he holstered the Colt and pinned her with a seductive gaze. “Tired?”
“Not a bit,” she lied, her cheeks burning in memory of where his mouth had been just moments before.
He quirked an amused eyebrow then sauntered toward the door. “Guess I’ll have to do better next time.”
She bolted upright, clutching the blanket to her chest. “When?” she asked, stifling a sneeze.
“When you’re feeling one-hundred percent. Rest up, honey. You’re going to need your energy.” He winked, shutting the door behind him.
Paris fell back on the bed, her body tingling as though stung by a thousand bees. Sniffles be hanged. Unconventionality was going to be the death of her.
His arousal throbbed within the confines of his jeans. Paris was killing him. Her uninhibited reaction to his oral play had kicked up his desire tenfold. Josh stalked into the sitting room, pumped to flatten the mysterious visitor who’d robbed him of his release.