The Gunfighter and the Heiress (4 page)

“I'll drink to that.” He poured himself—and her—another glass. “Who's trying to stop you from taking control?”

“My stepfather and the unfaithful fiancé he selected for me. They concocted a tidy business arrangement that is financially beneficial.
To them.
They will see to it that I don't live too long. A year at the most, since I'm a defiant inconvenience to both of them.”

“So you're hiring me to dispose of the two men before they do unto you?” He shook his head. “Sorry, sunshine, I'm not in the extermination business…unless I'm left with no choice.”

“I didn't come here to hire an assassin.” She sipped the whiskey more eagerly than before. “I refuse to let them off the hook that easily.”

He swallowed another chuckle—and wondered why it came so easily around her. Must be the whiskey mellowing him.

“Ah, a woman who intends to get even,” he said, and grinned—again. Amazing! “I like that about you. Not enough to marry you, of course…. Go on.”

“My real name is Natalie,” she said in a slurred voice.

The liquor was beginning to work like a truth serum. Which, of course, was the whole point of this deceptive exercise.

“You'll always be
sunshine
to me,” he replied.

His betraying gaze roamed over the yellow gown that accentuated all her feminine assets. And she had plenty of them, he noted. His well-honed powers of observation were working against him, causing an unwanted distraction. He was painfully aware of his physical attraction to the mysterious Natalie, alias Anna Jones. But he supposed most men—him included—would have to be dead a week not to be affected by her fascinating appeal.

She set her empty glass on the coffee table, then twisted sideways to stare at him. Van refilled her glass, then replaced it in her hand. He found himself taking more time than necessary to wrap her fingers around the glass.

He liked touching her and he took advantage of the excuse. Her skin was as soft as satin. That, in addition to her arresting figure, her bewitching facial features and her devastating smile kept sidetracking him. She also was smart and daring. He admired both qualities, which were highly praised in Indian culture.

Donovan Crow was nothing if not Kiowa at heart.

She cocked her head and studied him for a long
moment. “Are you trying to seduce me, Crow? If so, I must warn you that I've been propositioned by the most experienced rakes and adventurers that New Orleans has to offer.”

“Good for you.” He was excessively pleased she had now let her first name and her hometown slip. “I'm only trying to get you to tell me the details of this potential assignment. I assume it isn't really marriage to a man like me.”

She shook her head and several long, curly strands that were piled atop her head tumbled down and bounced around her temple like springs. He itched to pull the pins from her hair and comb his fingers through those dark, flaming strands. He wanted to watch them tumble across the pillow on his bed while they were naked in each other's arms…

Van snapped to attention, shocked at how quickly his wayward thoughts left him hard and aching. He usually had more self-control. But Miss Sunshine tempted the most self-disciplined of men—and he liked to think he was one.

“You are very much mistaken if you think I wasn't serious when I announced our wedding plans.”

He noticed her heavy drawl changed and the slur in her voice became more pronounced. Despite the glassy glaze in her obsidian eyes, she still sounded intent and determined.

“I will pay you handsomely to sign your name on a marriage license. You will receive a substantial fee for the use of your name. I will have the ultimate revenge on the two bastards trying to manipulate my life. No man will ever do that again. My new life of independence and adventure begins after the ceremony…”
Hiccup.
“'Scuse me.”

Natalie frowned at the sluggish sound of her own voice.
She stared into the contents of her glass and decided Crow was right. The whiskey didn't taste as offensive as it had earlier. Plus, it took the edge off her nerves. She supposed that was important because they
needed
to have this heart-to-heart talk so they could reach an agreement. As he'd said, this was part of the business negotiation ritual.

Her fuzzy gaze settled on his raven head and she marveled at the thick strands of his hair. Truth be told, she noticed everything about the dynamic man who would never fit into the well-to-do social circle in New Orleans. And that made him ideal for her—except there were two of him now. How odd. She shook her head in attempt to clear her blurred vision.

Donovan Crow didn't spew practiced lines of flattery or flaunt polished manners. He didn't project an air of self-importance that she disliked so much. He was what he was—a seasoned warrior tested and hardened by danger. His training in Indian culture provided him with a keen understanding of how to survive in the wilderness.

“Now I get it,” he said, jostling her from her meandering thoughts. “You want me to marry you before your other fiancé shows up. That way you can take control of your life so he and your stepfather can't interfere.”

“Precisely. I began this process three months ago when my mother died.” Her voice wavered but she gathered her composure and continued. “Mama had been ill for years. She couldn't counter my stepfather's scheme to marry me off and swindle me out of my inheritance. She encouraged me to become free and independent.”

He stilled, watching her much too closely with those piercing silver-blue eyes. “How much inheritance are we discussing, sunshine?”

She shrugged lackadaisically. There were some things Donovan Crow didn't need to know. She refused to break
her hard-and-fast rule that no man could be trusted explicitly. “Enough to provide him with a modest monthly stipend for the next several years.”

That wasn't true. Her stepfather coveted the
generous
stipend that would outlast his lifetime. Natalie's maternal ancestors, the Robedeauxs, were royalty in France who had escaped the revolution and moved their shipping business to New Orleans to provide merchants with unique and valuable products from all over the world. Her father's family held English titles and established several banks in Louisiana and in towns up and down the Mississippi River.

Which is why she traveled under an alias and refused to divulge her last name since it was so well known.

Crow's intense, probing stare bore into her but she waved him off. “The point is those two bastards—” She covered her mouth when the foul names she'd given Avery Marsh, her stepfather (Bastard Number One), and Thurston Kimball III, the philandering fiancé (Bastard Number Two), popped from her lips.

Rather than frowning in disapproval, as she expected, he threw back his head and laughed heartily. The deep, resonant sound utterly fascinated her and left a lasting impression, despite her inebriated state. So did the accompanying smile that lit every bronzed feature of his face. Suddenly Crow didn't seem as formidable as he had while he was bearing down on her earlier that evening.

She would have to remember to picture him laughing and grinning the next time he gave her that chilling look that turned his silver-blue eyes to ice and his face to chiseled granite.

“Those two bastards what?” he prompted, then sipped his whiskey. He raised the bottle to her. “More?”

“Please.” And why not? she asked herself. They were
enjoying a companionable discussion and negotiating a business deal. It was a man's way so it would become her way, too.

“The two men who're trying to run my life and end it prematurely…”
Hiccup.
“Sorry… They won't have control over me and my…modest…inheritance.”

“So we get married. You pay me for the use of my name and then what?” His penetrating stare was back in place—poking and prodding to reveal the secrets in her heart and soul. Tipsy or not, Natalie was determined to divulge as few secrets as possible.

“Then I set off on a great adventure I've dreamed about. I go where I want, when I want and you collect your fee and no longer bother with me.”

“So I sign my name beside yours on the document. We part company without the slightest inconvenience to either of us? That's it?”

He was frowning into his glass. She couldn't fathom why.

“Easiest money you will ever make,” she tempted him.

“Or so you say.” He stared at her suspiciously. “I don't have to track anyone down, investigate a murder or confront bank robbers, train robbers, cattle thieves or ruthless murderers?”

She nodded affirmatively—or at least she thought she did. A strange numbness affected her movements and her senses so she took another drink to cure the problem. It didn't help.

He stared at her over the rim of his glass. “What if you find someone you really want to marry someday?”

“I won't,” she mumbled. “I handpicked you and you are perfect for me. I have sworn off men and their conniving ways for the rest of my life. You are the exception. What about you? Will you marry one day?”

“No, I'm not considered desirable marriage material because of my mixed heritage. The only available jobs are as bounty hunters, hired guns and lawmen. None of which appeals to most decent women.”

He was silent a moment, then he said, “That's why you singled me out, isn't it? A gun for hire becomes a husband for hire. We conclude our business transaction and go our separate ways.” He smirked then drained his glass. “And whites call
me
cold-blooded. There's a laugh, sunshine.”

“You're a businessman and I'm a businesswoman,” she replied—and wondered what had become of her exaggerated Southern accent. “We strike a bargain that benefits both of us and our business is concluded. Then I head for Denver to see the mountains I've heard described in books. Simple as that.”

“And I venture to a brothel to celebrate my marriage?” He scoffed. “Sounds unconventional in every way imaginable.”

She tossed him a droopy smile. “Unconventional will be my middle name, Crow. I plan to enjoy all the conveniences and privileges men take for granted.”

“Like barging into a saloon on a wild whim?” he supplied helpfully.

She shrugged. “I'll strive to do anything and everything a man can do and I will never be at any man's mercy again.”

“And that is important?”

“As important to
me
as I suspect avoiding reservation life in Indian Territory is to
you.
” She fought to keep her wits about her while she played her ace in the hole. “
Freedom,
Crow. I want what you have. I think you understand what I mean.”

Their gazes locked and she
knew
he understood her, just as she understood him. He, like she, valued indepen
dence. She didn't know the specific details of his former life or his mixed-heritage background, but she suspected his white ancestry spared him from the confinement his Indian clan endured.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Eventually he said, “Your plan has a few problems that I can see.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“Your two bastard friends might track you down and have the marriage annulled…unless we consummate it. Even then, all they need is enough money to bribe a corrupt judge to discard the license. Or dispose of
me
so
you'll
become a marriageable widow.”

N
atalie slumped back on the sofa and nearly sloshed her drink down the front of her dress. Her cheeks felt flushed and her thoughts swirled in disarray. Whether from too much liquor or the intimate topic of conversation, she couldn't say for certain.

She shot Crow a sideways glance, wondering if this hard-edged man knew how to be tender with a woman who had no intimate experience whatsoever. He didn't look the least bit gentle. Which was another necessary qualification for this assignment. If Avery and Thurston confronted him, they would think twice about battling a man with a dangerous reputation and exceptional skills.

More likely, she mused, they would hire an assassin to shoot him while he was unaware.

Damn, then she would have his death on her conscience!

Natalie winced at the unpleasant prospect. She tried to tell herself that Crow was in the business of risking life and limb for exorbitant fees. It's what he did. Nevertheless, she didn't want him injured—or worse—because of her.

She, however, didn't feel charitable toward Avery and Thurston. They could go straight to hell—and stay there—as far as she was concerned.

When Natalie took another sip of whiskey, the room spun around her. She was exhausted from her long journey and from three months of diligent planning to escape. Plus, she'd had entirely too many drinks. Darkness closed in and she tilted sideways, unable to muster the strength to push herself upright. Her head drooped against Crow's broad shoulder and she savored his solid strength beside her. For the first time in months, she felt safe. “Sunshine?”

Crow's deep, resonant voice echoed from what seemed to be a long, winding tunnel. Natalie thought she heard him call to her again as her glass slipped from her fingertips and she tried unsuccessfully to grab it.

Then the world went dark and silent.

 

Van snatched the whiskey glass from Natalie's fingertips before it sloshed on both of them. He looked down at her exquisite face resting against his shoulder. Her long black lashes lay against her cheeks like delicate butterflies. Her lush lips parted slightly, as if awaiting his kiss.

A jolt of awareness sizzled through him and he yielded to the impossible temptation. Van kissed her, just as he'd wanted to do since the moment she planted one on him in front of a captive audience at the bar. It had taken all the self-control he'd spent a lifetime cultivating not to respond to her in front of all those eagle-eyed men at the Road To Ruin Saloon. He hadn't dared to show the slightest weakness for this mere wisp of a woman. That might place her in jeopardy and put him at a disadvantage.

Ruthless men, after all, used every vulnerability at their disposal when they came gunning for him.

Now that no one was watching, he cupped his hand beneath her chin and tipped her head back. He kissed her softly, enjoying the feel of her plump pink lips. He savored the enticing fragrance of her perfume—it had been tormenting his acute senses since she'd ventured close to him in the saloon.

He reached up to pull the pins from her hair and the glorious strands of dark flames tumbled over his shoulder. He looked down at the creamy swells of her breasts then involuntarily skimmed his forefinger over the satiny flesh pressed against the scooped neckline of her gown.

Desire hit him like a runaway locomotive. He became hard and aching in two seconds flat. Yep, he definitely needed a woman if Sunshine could bring him to his knees after one kiss and caress. And never mind that he had trouble maintaining a professional detachment when she insisted that she had handpicked him and he was perfect for her. It was impossible not to be flattered. What man wouldn't be?

“Well, hell,” Van muttered. Natalie was out cold and he doubted substituting a harlot for her would satisfy him. He needed to get her out of his reach but he couldn't take her to her room because he didn't know where it was. He did not intend to troop downstairs to ask the busybody clerk. That would invite too many questions and speculations.

“No other choice,” Van told himself as he rose from the settee then scooped her up in his arms.

Her head tilted backward, sending a waterfall of curly hair cascading over his arm. She was dead weight and she didn't stir for even a moment while he carried her into the adjoining room.

Van stood indecisively at the foot of the bed. He hesitated at stuffing her beneath the quilt and wrinkle her
gown. He really liked that yellow dress but he figured he'd like it even better if she were out of it.

“Why me?” he asked no one in particular as he contemplated how he could undress her without reacting to the sight of her partially clad body. Then he shrugged. “Why not me? I should get something from this upcoming marriage, shouldn't I?”

His staunch insistence there would be no wedding had fizzled out sometime during their negotiations over drinks—far too many drinks, as it turned out.

Focused on his task, Van angled her unresponsive body over his shoulder, then unfastened the buttons on the back of her gown. He pulled down the fluffy sleeves to her elbows. Then he doubled over to lay her on her stomach on his bed. Taking care not to rip any seams, Van pulled the gown past her waist, hips and feet.

She stirred slightly and her eyes opened to half-mast. Van took advantage of her dazed state and asked, “What's your stepfather and fiancé's name, sunshine?”

“Thurston and Avery,” she mumbled before she collapsed.

When Van gently turned her onto her back, he found himself staring at the lacy neckline of her chemise that barely concealed her breasts. He groaned aloud. This was pure visual torment. Grumbling in frustration, he tugged off her petticoats, then shook out her dress and hung it in the wardrobe closet.

When he turned back to his bed, his gaze settled on the long expanse of her legs and the high-riding chemise that barely concealed her hips. While he tugged off her kid boots he kept his eyes on the task, for fear his betraying gaze would drift up to sneak a peek at whatever undergarment—if any—lay beneath that skimpy chemise.

Hungry need hammered at him while he played
handmaiden. But Van accomplished his task, then drew the sheet over her curvaceous body. He wanted to crawl into bed with her, if only to sleep off the effects of exhaustion and a tad too much whiskey. It was
his
bed, after all, and the settee was too short to accommodate him. His only option was bunking on the floor—which he'd done too damn often the past few weeks during his last assignment.

His thoughts flittered off when he heard the distinct knock on the door. Wheeling about, Van made a beeline through the sitting room to whip open the door.

Bart craned his neck around Van's shoulder. “What did you do to her? And what does she want?”

He shut the door after Bart burst inside. “Do come in,” he smirked. “Now which question should I answer first?”

“Let's start with what you did to her,” Bart said in an accusing tone.

“I put her to bed.”

Bart blinked owlishly from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Yours?”

Van ambled over to pick up his glass, hoping the shot of whiskey would cool the hot, unappeased desire clamoring below his belt buckle. It didn't.

“Yes, my bed. I don't know which room is hers and I sure as hell didn't plan to cart her unconscious body door to door to check availability or consult the nosy clerk.”

“I see your point.” Bart retrieved the spare glass from the table and poured himself a drink. He stared speculatively at Van. “So what is it that she really wants from you?”

Van took a sip, thankful Natalie was asleep and he and Bart could speak freely. “She proposed a no-strings-attached marriage that will give her independence and
control of her modest inheritance. I am to receive a generous fee for signing my name on the license.”

“You are kidding,” said Bart. He stared toward the door of the adjoining room. “She's an extremely appealing and intelligent woman. Why isn't she interested in what most women want? Marriage, security and family?”

“Sunshine isn't
most women,
” Van clarified.

“Yes, yes, I can see that, but what do you think motivated this rash scheme of hers?”

“Supposedly, her greedy stepfather arranged her wedding for his financial benefit to her unfaithful fiancé…
if
her story is to be believed,” Van summarized.

He'd heard of shady dealings such as this before. The thought of Natalie Whoever-She-Was suffering a similar fate angered him. He admired her for being assertive and taking charge of her destiny. She had devised a way to have her freedom. Just as he had faced the unknown to avoid confinement on the reservation.

“She explained her situation and I got her to name names, though I doubt she'll remember what she told me since I ensured she drank enough to loosen her tongue,” Van continued. “She let it slip that she's from New Orleans and her first name is Natalie. Or so she said. She might have more than one alias.” He stared intently at Bart. “I don't intend to call her by that name until she confides in me, however. See what you can find out about someone named Thurston or Avery. I don't know if those are first or last names. Also, check those newspapers you subscribe to about a recent runaway bride. I want to know exactly who we are dealing with and if she's telling me the truth.”

Bart gaped at him, then shifted his astonished gaze to the bedroom door. “You are seriously considering taking this assignment of marriage?”

Yes, although I don't trust her completely. But I under
stand how precious independence and freedom are,
he mused. Instead, he said, “Why not? She claims it's the easiest money I'll ever earn. I have the extra added benefit of not having to track anyone down or risk being shot at.”

“Unless this supposedly enraged stepfather and bitter fiancé show up to make her a widow shortly after she becomes your bride,” Bart pointed out.

“I considered that possibility.”

“They might even bring along gun-toting reinforcements.” Bart stared grimly at Van. “You're good at what you do, my friend, but even a handful of sharp-shooting Texans at the Alamo couldn't hold off Santa Anna and his Mexican army.”

“By the time the two bastards discover where she is, she will be long gone and so will I.”

Bart sipped his drink and frowned. “I suppose. But still…”

Van flicked his wrist dismissively. “I'll worry about the details tomorrow. Right now I'm tired and I need sleep.”

“I keep telling you that the devil is in the details,” Bart didn't hesitate to remind him. “I can't believe you're actually considering a marriage the day after tomorrow. And what if she's a fraud and you don't find out until it's too late? And where, might I ask, do
you
intend to sleep tonight?”

Van shepherded his friend across the room, took the glass from his hand and opened the door. “She might very well be a fraud, but I can handle her.”

“Maybe so, but I—”

Van closed the door before Bart voiced more objections. He doubted Bart would complain if Little Miss Sunshine had asked him to be the groom. Van's wry smile fizzled out when he reminded himself that he'd be sleeping on the floor tonight…or not…

Hell, it wasn't as if Natalie Whoever-She-Was would know where he slept. She'd be conked out for hours. Van set aside his drink and doused the lantern. It was
his
bed and by damn, he was going to sleep in it!

 

“Oh…my…gawd…”
Natalie groaned miserably.

The room swirled around her and her stomach pitched and rolled like a storm-tossed ship in a hurricane. She was afraid to open her eyes for fear it would make her more nauseous.

Holding her throbbing head in one hand, she levered herself onto a wobbly elbow and tried to remember what she'd said and done last night—besides ingest too much whiskey. Nothing came to mind. Not recalling her actions troubled her to no end. She pried open one eye and then grimaced when glaring sunshine blazed through the window of her room…

“No, that isn't right,” she mumbled hoarsely. “This isn't my room.”

An uneasy sensation battled the queasy feelings that assailed her as she glanced sideways to survey the spacious, elaborately furnished room closely. To her shock and dismay, she realized she was in Crow's bed. A yellow rose lay in the indentation in the other pillow beside hers. Also, she noticed her chemise was twisted around her like a maypole, exposing one breast and a bare hip.

“Sweet merciful heavens!” she wheezed as the shocking possibility registered in her liquor-saturated brain.

Natalie collapsed on the bed, gulping for breath. Donovan Crow must have taken advantage of her while she was too far into her cups to protest. Anger and resentment boiled inside her. How dare he…! she thought, and then gulped hard, wondering if
she
had seduced Crow into
agreeing to marry her while her inhibitions were drowning in liquor. Dear God!

Natalie gathered her frazzled composure and frowned consideringly. Not knowing the intimate details of their encounter spared her awkward embarrassment and whatever pain might have accompanied the act. Well, that was one less thing to fret about, she told herself. Now, if she could recover from the nausea and hellish headache she could set the hasty wedding plans in motion and be done with it.

Her gaze drifted to the yellow rose again. She plucked it up, noting Crow had removed the thorns from the stem. So he did have a tad of tender sensitivity buried beneath that hard exterior, did he? She had wondered about that.

Rising—carefully, in case her stomach flip-flopped—she wobbled across the expensive carpet to find her gown hanging in the wardrobe. Another thoughtful gesture she hadn't expected from Crow. Thurston Kimball III wouldn't have bothered with any such thing. The