Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch
a mere inch below her outstretched fingers. She jerked back her hand to ensure she still had five fingers attached. Again she’d surprised Cale. Most folks he encountered gave Skeet a wide berth and never tried to befriend him. Obviously, she was a kind, caring soul, despite whatever situation had put her on the run and provoked her to tell him little white lies.
“A word of warning,” Cale cautioned as he snapped his fingers, signaling the dog to heel. “Never, ever, make sudden moves toward Skeet. He’s in the same line of work I am and he’s damn good at it. Better than I am, in fact.”
She stared at Skeet, then glanced at Cale. “I could have sworn I saw a sign posted on the steps that said No Animals Allowed.”
Cale nodded. “You did. But Skeet has special privileges. I did a small favor for James Jensen. Now Skeet and I have the best hotel accommodations. Skeet may be banned from the restaurant, but he has the run of this suite.”
She smiled slyly at him. “That is the boiled-down version of the story James conveyed to me. Saving a man’s life and ensuring that he wasn’t parted from his hard-earned money constitutes far more than a small favor, Mr. Elliot.”
When she turned to go, Cale called after her. “Oh, by the way, if I agree to your bargain, I want six grand and there will be a wedding night.” He waited for her reaction, curious to see just how determined she was to get herself a husband. Determined enough to pry another thousand from her purse and come willingly to their marriage bed, if he so requested?
Cale watched another blush suffuse her cheeks, saw her eyes flare with temper and her fists knot in the folds of her gown. Better that Little Miss N’Awlins know here and now that he couldn’t be charmed or cajoled into doing anything he didn’t want to do, especially when he knew she wasn’t being completely honest with him.
“Well?” he asked, battling an amused grin as he watched her stiffen like cured mortar and glare daggers at him. “You never did tell me your name. Seems that if I do decide to wed you I oughta know what to call you.”
“I’ll consider your request,” she said tightly. “We can hammer out the details over supper.”
Five would get him ten that she was going to spend the next two hours trying to figure out how to convince him that he didn’t really want a wedding night and that five grand was more than plenty for the use of his worthless name.
And speaking of names… “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Sarah Rawlins,” she said, then turned and left.
Cale scowled at the closed door. He’d bet his last silver dollar that he still hadn’t learned that mysterious woman’s true name. Again he wondered what she was running from and how soon the past would catch up with her. It always did—somehow or other. That was the gospel according to Cale Elliot.
He drew in a deep breath and muttered when the alluring scent of her perfume filled his senses. It clung to his clothing, teasing him, tormenting him. Just like the vision of that woman with secrets in her eyes.
Muttering at the sudden, whimsical image of him and Sarah Rawlins—or whoever she really was—rolling around naked on his bed, Cale stalked to the door to flag down a maid and request water for a bath. Considering that dainty female’s affect on his male body, he could use a cold bath, but his screaming muscles needed relief. He’d spent too many days in the saddle. Too many nights on the ground, sleeping with one eye open and one hand clamped over his Colt.
He’d spent three weeks on constant alert, expecting to be bushwhacked at every bend of the road, from every overhanging sandstone cliff, from the shadows of every cave where outlaws lurked, armed to the teeth. Cale desperately needed to soak in a tub, relax and ponder Sarah’s proposition.
Hell, he thought, if she really was determined to marry someone, it might as well be him. It wasn’t as if he had any other potential prospects beating down his door. But all the same, a man was entitled to a wedding night for the use of his name—especially when his new wife looked, smelled and felt as tempting as Sarah Rawlins.
Her offer of money didn’t persuade or impress him, because money wasn’t a motivation for him. He’d been stockpiling cash in Fort Smith’s bank for years and had money to burn. What he didn’t have was a wife and the titillating trimmings of a wedding night. He wanted that violet-eyed beauty to come willingly into his arms, wanted to know what it was like to touch purity and refinement.
And secretly wished her innocence and good breeding might somehow rub off on him.
Cale waited impatiently while a troop of young boys filed into his room to fill the tub with steaming water. When he had the place to himself once again, he stripped off his clothes, sank into the tub and sighed contentedly. Ah, there was nothing better than a long-awaited bath…unless it was one uninterrupted night in the arms of an alluring woman who’d sought him out with an intriguing proposition.
Chapter Three
Hanna stood in the middle of her cramped room, which contained nothing but crude necessities—a narrow, lumpy bed, washstand, lantern and small towel. Grumbling, she plopped down on the bed. Her perfect, would-be husband had turned out to be as demanding as her father. Furthermore, Cale Elliot was an unscrupulous scoundrel. He wanted a wedding night and six grand, did he? Hanna silently fumed over the fact that a man had manipulated her again. It was the story of her life.
On second thought, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised by Cale’s counteroffer. Expecting any man to blithely agree to a wedding without the night that customarily followed was asking a bit much. As for the extra thousand dollars, Hanna would be more than compensated when her trust fund was released to her. That really wasn’t the issue here.
Spending the night with Cale Elliot was. The mere prospect of the unknown caused uneasy sensations to ripple through her.
Hanna glanced across the room to stare in the mirror that hung above the washstand. She pulled the pins from her hair and shook her head to send curls streaming down her back. Although Cale Elliot was as rough around the edges as a man could probably get, and they had nothing in common, there was something about those intense dark eyes and that bronzed face that intrigued her. Not enough, of course, to agree to going to bed with him, unless all other possibilities of gaining his assistance were exhausted. To Hanna, intimacy was just one more way for a man to control and dominate a woman. According to her married friends, lust was much more enjoyable for a man, and it was a woman’s duty to tolerate her husband’s physical desires. It seemed blasted unfair, but there you had it. That was marriage for you.
Hanna called up Cale’s mental image as she stretched out on her bed to rest. Despite her irritation at him, there was a wild nobility, an aura of dynamic power about Cale that she envied. Although he would make a most inappropriate husband if they were brushing shoulders with the upper crust of society, undeniably, there was something about the man that appealed to her. She was at a complete loss to explain or define her reaction to him. The fact that she had reacted to him on some basic level disturbed her.
Surely she couldn’t be attracted to Cale Elliot. He looked too rugged for her tastes, and she naturally assumed from his appearance that there would be nothing gentle or enjoyable about his embrace. He certainly hadn’t showed any tendencies toward tenderness when he’d clutched her to him, then searched her for weapons as impersonally as he might search a criminal.
The question was how determined was she to marry? Determined enough to sacrifice her innocence to a stranger who would take what he wanted from her and likely give nothing in return?
The thought caused Hanna to shiver, and she reflexively reached out to flip the thin bedspread over her shoulders. She lay there for a moment, asking herself just how much she was willing to sacrifice for her long-awaited freedom. She’d come this far. She’d given up all that was familiar and comfortable, but she was not returning to her father’s home to marry Louis Beauchamp, no matter how many French titles his uppity ancestors had flaunted.
Hanna drifted off to sleep,