Lawman (10 page)

"I'm wounded." He adopted a hound dog-sad
expression to prove it.

She shrugged. Heartless to the end...except
when backed up against a wall with amusement in her eyes and her
body trembling in his arms. Memories—unwanted memories—of the soft,
tentative touch of her lips chased away his notions of teasing her
further.

"Wounded and wrong," Gabriel went on. "To my
recollection, sugar, your mouth wasn't cruel at all."

Her flush deepened. "I'll be sure to remedy
that next time."

"I'm glad to hear there'll be one."

With surprise, he realized it was true. He
wanted to kiss her, long and often. Fast and hard. Sweet and
slowly. Her fiery defense of her family hinted at a passion she
could hardly deny. Could he unleash it in other, less dangerous
ways?

"One what?" she asked.

"A next time to find out if that mouth of
yours is as honeyed as I remember."

"Oh!" With gloved hands, Megan twisted her
mare's reins tighter. She nibbled her lower lip, her teeth white in
a face gone deep pink with embarrassment. "Well. I'll have you
know, agent Winter, that my mouth is most certainly not...not. . .
what you said."

Her sudden shyness was as endearing as it
was unexpected. Would he never understand the twists and turns of
this woman's mind?

Gabriel grinned. "A bite might serve to
convince me."

Watching the play of her lips and teeth,
bedeviled by the memory of her freely given kiss, he thought about
it some more and changed his mind. "But then again, it might have
exactly the opposite effect. Would you care to try it out when we
reach our hotel, darlin'?"

Her head jerked upward. A magnificent feat,
Gabriel reckoned, considering the probable weight of her hat.

"Perhaps," she said archly, "if it's a kiss
goodbye
."

A quick, hunted expression crossed her face.
Even as he wondered at its cause, it vanished. In its place,
somehow Megan mustered the necessary vinegar to deliver him a thin,
wholly counterfeit smile.

"Do you have any other questions for me,
agent Winter, or shall we agree to behave like the enemies we
are?"

If they did, he'd never learn anything from
her about the running of Kearney station, the station hands who
worked there...or her father's suspicious absence. Somehow, he'd
have to cajole her into cooperating with him. Or, at the least,
he'd have to convince her not to deliberately sabotage his robbery
investigation.

A fool's errand, to be sure.

He'd be better served to continue his
investigation as planned, and track Joseph Kearney as quickly as
possible. But he couldn't leave a wild card like Megan unaccounted
for while he did.

Somehow, he'd have to keep her beside him,
use what she knew, and bring her father to justice in the end—just
as he'd been hired to do. His livelihood, and his reputation,
depended on it.

Winter brings in the right man at the
right time
.

He smiled at her. "I'd rather not be your
enemy, sugar."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." She
spurred her horse harder.

Gabriel followed, frowning in thought. The
way to charm Miss Megan evidently wasn't tied to either flattery or
hints at her sought-after status. Unusual, compared with most of
the ladies he knew. Given what he'd learned of her so far, he
shouldn't have been surprised at that. But it left him at a loss as
to what to try next. A gesture of goodwill?

They neared the Cosmopolitan, the
two-storied, balconied hotel of adobe and wood where he'd planned
to headquarter both his fellow Pinkerton agents in the field and
his search for the thief he sought. He'd booked a room there while
fresh from the train. It would be simple enough, he reckoned, to
engage an additional room for his prickly feminine guest.

And simpler still to have her share his.

Too bad she'd never agree. Shoving that
enticing thought from his mind, Gabriel spied a fruit vendor on the
street corner nearest them, and brought his horse around in that
direction instead. As long as the two of them were the unabashed
enemies she'd claimed, he'd sooner goad her into cold-blooded
murder than he would persuade her into something so warmhearted as
sharing his room.

Regardless of how much they'd enjoy the
latter.

With a wry grin for the thought, Gabriel
stopped beside the fruit vendor's wooden cart and examined the
melons, oranges, and lemons piled atop it. With a quizzical look,
his companion stopped, too.

"And as a matter of fact," he told her, "I
do have one more question for you."

Bending from his saddle, he exchanged a coin
for one of the man's vibrant oranges. With that accomplished, he
straightened and held the fruit toward Megan. "Would you mind so
very much calling me Gabriel?" he asked softly.

Her eyebrows raised. In the silence that
fell between them, she looked from the orange in his hand to his
face. Something akin to regret filled her expression.

"Why?"

"Why?" Puzzled, he kept his hand extended
toward her. Had she no liking for gifts, either? "Because you say
'agent Winter' as though my name is something you'd like to scrape
from your shoe. I'd rather you call me Gabriel."

"Oh." She frowned and looked downward,
consumed, for all appearances, with an overriding interest in the
drape of her skirt over her bent knee. Drawing an unsteady breath,
she pleated the folds of fabric in her gloved hands, but made no
move to accept his gift...or to honor his request.

It seemed she
would
mind calling him
by his given name.

Very much.

Damned stubborn female.

The awkwardness between them grew, and the
orange in Gabriel's palm felt heavier with each passing moment.
Giving it to her had been a stupid idea in a day filled to brimming
with several just like it.

Maybe he'd lost his knack for detective
work. Sure as hell, he'd lost his taste for the plain meanness it
often called for. After years of living on the road, days like
this—and obstacles like Megan Kearney—made him long for nothing
more than laying down the life he'd known as an agent and starting
over someplace new.

But he'd be damned if he'd start over with a
losing record.

He had to solve this case. The sooner the
better.

"Perhaps 'agent Go-To-The-Devil' would be
more to your liking then?" Gabriel conjured a smile to hide the
ridiculous feeling of caring what she called him, and how she did
it, at all. He tossed the orange into the air, caught it, and
repeated the motion. "'Course, something a shade less heated might
be more befitting a lady's sensibilities. Agent Chowderhead, agent
Halfwit...am I getting close to something you might agree with,
Miss Kearney?"

He chanced a look at her. Quickly, she
ducked her head—but the motion couldn't conceal the silly smile on
her face.

"Miss Kearney?" he prodded. He couldn't have
explained the ridiculous pleasure he felt at having made her smile,
and he didn't want to try. "I can see you don't care for oranges,
but I know you're capable of expressing your opinion."

In answer, she leaned a bit from her
sidesaddle and reached to catch the orange in midair. Gabriel
snatched it back, and she gave him a quelling look.

"Actually, I'm partial to 'agent
Chowderhead,'" she said. The sassy smile on her face was a sight to
behold.

"I thought you might be."

"But I'm willing to settle on Gabriel,"
Megan went on, her expression sobering, "if that's what you'd
prefer."

Her voice was soft, filled either with the
apology he found himself hoping for—or with the guile he'd come to
expect from her. The sweet sound of it could have lulled a lesser
man into underestimating her talent for distraction.

Luckily, Gabriel counted himself twice wiser
since meeting her this morning.

"And," she went on, "if you'll agree to call
me Megan in return. I'd like it very much if you would."

He gave her a doubtful, sideways look.
Deftly, he flipped the orange upward, rolled it over the back of
his hand, and turned his palm to cup the fruit and complete the
trick.

He offered it to her. "I will. Megan it
is."

Her fingers curved over the orange, touched
and joined briefly with his. In that instant, he wished her gloves
away. He wished for the feel of her bare skin on his, even in an
area so small as their hands, and knew his dealings with her could
demand more than he'd bargained for. Far more.

Or offer just as much.

Anticipation flowed through him, hot as the
sun overhead and just as impossible to extinguish. He wanted her.
If the sudden, reflexive tightening of her hand on his meant
anything at all, Megan felt the same. Her awareness of it showed in
her eyes when she looked up at him. It sounded in the
breathlessness in her voice when she spoke.

"Thank you. Very much."

Damn, but she gave over her thanks like
another woman would have invited a man upstairs. Sweetly.
Seductively. Too bad it would likely wind up costing him just as
much, in the end.

For now, he didn't care.

"You're welcome. No need to thank me,
though."

They'd reached an accord. It ought to have
been enough, at least for a start. But Gabriel had never been a
settling kind of man. Motioning for her to follow, he set his horse
into motion toward the two-story, balconied haven of the
Cosmopolitan hotel.

"After all, I reckon being on familiar terms
with each other will be mighty useful," he said, nodding toward the
hotel's whitewashed adobe façade and distinctive sign, "once we're
inside...sharing our room."

Chapter Seven

Sharing a room!

Megan still couldn't believe Gabriel
Winter's scandalous suggestion—or the impossible, cocksure look the
Pinkerton man had worn when he'd made it. He was too determined,
too audacious, and too sure of himself by far.

Not to mention too appealing for his own
good
. And, if she were to be honest, her own. Never had a man
paid such undivided attention to her as he had since they'd arrived
in Tucson together. Never had anyone paid her such extravagant
compliments, or shown such consideration for her wants and
desires.

Except in the matter of their hotel room
accommodations, of course, Megan amended. There, Gabriel had
remained unbudgeable. She was to remain close to him—exceedingly,
dangerously close to him—for the duration of their unlikely
partnership.

When she'd protested, he'd pointed out quite
nicely that she could always stay alone if she chose...in a private
cell at the territorial jail. Since that would leave her father at
the mercy of Gabriel Winter and all the Pinkerton men he'd
assembled, Megan had felt compelled to decline his offer.

As he'd known she would. The rascal.

Sighing, Megan opened the pair of
glass-fronted doors leading to the balcony of their second-story
room at the Cosmopolitan. Embraced by a swirl of crisp afternoon
air, she stepped outside. Almost immediately, her heart
lightened.

Despite the luxury at her back, despite the
man whose image and presence filled her thoughts, the world she was
accustomed to living in still existed. The proof of it drifted
upward on the dusty autumn breeze, made itself heard in the
clip-clopping hoofbeats of horses and their riders passing in the
streets below, and sailed past on the wings of a cactus wren
sweeping toward the hotel roof.

Megan's eyes followed the bird's flight, and
for a moment she wished herself as free as it was. Disasters had
closed in on her from all sides. This time, she feared, quick
thinking and fast talking might not be enough.

But what else did she have?

Nothing. Dispirited, she curled her fingers
around the chilly scrollwork of the wrought iron balcony rail. If
she tried, perhaps she could catch a glimpse of the Webster's shop
from here. Surely looking toward her future would bolster her
spirits—something she badly needed to do, before being called to
face agent Winter again. She'd begged a few moments of privacy when
they'd arrived, citing a need to freshen up before calling on the
townspeople Gabriel intended to question, but she doubted her
respite would last for long.

She had to make the most of her opportunity.
While nothing could cool the blush his scandalous compliments
brought to her cheeks, and nothing could stop her foolish,
French-novel-inspired imagination from leaping to flights of fancy
at his touch, the more Megan could prepare herself for his return,
the better she'd fare against him.

Sparring with Gabriel had sapped her
strength. Being on guard against him had damaged her faith. And,
however much she wished it weren't true, resisting the pull of his
quick, charm-filled smile had challenged her heart. But she judged
herself holding her own against him, at least, and that
accomplishment had to count for something.

It
did
count for something. For
better or worse, Megan Kearney was a woman who believed in taking
action. It would be disastrous to begin doubting all she'd done so
far.

Perhaps the distance she'd
accomplished—however short-lived—had already made her immune to
agent Winter's rogue Irish charms, she decided optimistically. Why,
he'd probably return without her even noticing his presence at
all.

Immensely cheered at the thought, Megan
tightened her grasp on the railing and rose up on tiptoes. The
breeze stirred her skirts around her ankles, brushing worsted wool
against the thin knit of her cotton stockings as she raised herself
still higher by propping one foot on the lower rail. Peering south
along the
presidio's
Main Street, Megan let her gaze travel
past rows of flat-roofed shops and houses, paused upon
San
Agustín
church in the distance, then continued onward.