The Girl with the Golden Gun

by Ann Major

“This will end badly—like before,” he warned.

  “Maybe you don’t know everything.” She shifted so that she faced him and ripped off his blanket. He felt her eyes before her hands ran over his body. When her fingers touched his penis and began to make slow circles at the tip, the pleasure was too much.

  He grabbed her hand. “My turn,” he growled, “to strip you.”

  She sat up, and he pulled her blouse up and over her head and tossed it onto the top of his blanket. In seconds her panties, bra and skirt had joined the heat. Then he devoured her pale beautiful body with his gaze.

  She twisted a little and opened her legs. Running her hands through his thick black hair, she pushed herself into him so that he lodged between her legs. Then she kissed him.

  “Why do you have to be so damned sexy?” he muttered a long time later.

  “Only with you.”

  “I wish. I think of you with other men sometimes like that thug, and it drives me crazy. How many…”

  “Nobody but you.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to think you’re so special to me?”

  Grabbing a fistful of her red hair, he pulled her closer. When his penis probed the wetness between her legs, she sighed.

  “I see no bull’s gotten the best of you yet.”

  He grinned. “The keyword being yet. A friend of mine got his privates stomped into bloody pulp.”

  “You’ve got to stop that ridiculous business, you know. You’re not a kid anymore.”

  He hated the age difference between them as well as the thought that she might consider him old.

  “I decide when I’m ready to retire.”

  “I just hope it’s before some rank bull decides to kill you!”

  He tensed.

  “Okay. Okay,” she murmured. “You decide. Forget I said anything. Just hold me and caress me.” Her hands found him again and began to move.

  He stuck two fingers inside her. “God, you’re wet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Damn!” He sat bolt upright. “If we do this…”

  “If—” She stroked him playfully, arching her body toward his with a playful cry.

  “I’ve got to protect you.”

  Swiftly he got out of bed and stalked outside to where he’d thrown his backpack down. He ripped open a plastic packet and slid the thing on. When he returned, his hands came around her gently. Spreading her legs apart so that she straddled him, he lifted her up on top of him and pulled her down, down until their bodies snugged together and his shaft was lodged at her damp entrance. He told himself to go slowly, but suddenly, he was as frantic to have her as she was to have him.

  Her long hair swished against his face as he reached up and fastened his mouth on hers, this time with a soul-devouring passion. When she opened her lips, his tongue plundered her lips.

  He kissed her again and again, drinking in the taste of her.

  “I want you inside me—now,” she begged, sliding herself against him. “Now.”

  His breathing grew harsh. “You do it then.”

  She slid a little, and he lunged upward at the exact same moment. With a deep sigh Mia sank down, down and then with him locked inside her, she began to rock back and forth on top of him. Leaning down, clouds of her hair falling against his face and shoulders, she kissed his mouth very tenderly, and her gentle kisses drove him wild.

  It had been so long, and she felt so good that soon he lost control.

  As his climax began to build, she sobbed, crying out in soft rapturous moans. Happiness flooded him, the kind he’d been seeking his entire life. He wanted to stop, to hold on to the exquisite moment, to make it last, but he couldn’t.

  When he suddenly exploded, she screamed and clung tightly, her body shuddering.

  His climax went on and on, and so did hers. Even when it was over and they were both limp, he held on to her tightly, wanting to stay inside her as he stroked her back.

  In the aftermath he felt profound tenderness. At the same time his intense feelings scared him.

  “You screamed Tavio’s name when you slept. Did you fantasize I was him just then when we had sex?”

  With a wounded cry, she jumped off him. “How can you ask that—now?”

  “Is that why you were so wild?” he muttered.

  “Don’t ruin it,” she whispered brokenly.

  “I know what I heard.”

  “Fine. Think the worst of me—like always!” She pushed him away.

  When he got up and grabbed his blanket, she let out such a howl he jumped.

  “What was that about?”

  “You! Why can’t you be an easy guy?”

  “Easy like you?”

  “Get out!”

  “Gladly.” He strode outside.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need some air.” He knew he was using anger in some unfair way, but his unreasonableness only made him more furious—at her.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” Feeling all mixed up, he whirled and then thought better of what he’d been about to say.

  “I hate Tavio! What does it take for you to figure out I’m crazy about you?”

  “Maybe—that’s only ’cause I’m the one in your bed tonight, and you’re horny. Did you crave him in bed, too?”

  “That’s the way you probably are!” She threw a can at him, and it zinged past him. The second one bounced against the wood and rolled across the cabin floor.

  Feeling explosive, he slammed the door. Then he yanked his stiff, wet jeans off the railing and stepped into them.

  “Shanghai—”

  Ignoring Mia, he struggled into the cold denim that clung to his flesh, sticking to certain parts most unpleasantly. Then he sank down on the steps and pulled on his wet socks. It took all his strength to tug on his boots since the leather was swollen from having gotten wet in the Rio Grande.

  When he heard her featherlight footsteps on the other side of the door behind him, he stiffened.

  “Not more cans, I hope.”

  She eased the door open and crawled on her knees until she came up behind him. Cursing, he yanked even harder at his boots.

  When she got so close to him that he felt her body heat, he held his breath. After a moment or two, when she deemed it was safe, she laid her head against the middle of his back.

  “What are we doing?” she murmured.

  Acting like a pair of lunatics.

  Oh, God, she felt soft and warm, and her silken hair tickled his bare skin. It would be so easy to turn around, to melt into her sweetness and lose himself again to the pleasure only she could give him.

  Too damn easy.

  His need for her tenderness and love was so acute, he was an easy mark. With immense difficulty, he clung to his anger.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”

  “Me, too,” he said, but so roughly and with such little sincerity, she recoiled.

  “I’m not like this with other men,” she said in a frightened undertone.

  He didn’t argue this time, but maybe he should have. A few seconds later when she ran her fingers through his hair a powerful jolt made him want to kiss her so badly he hurt. Instead he jerked his head away.

  “I—I don’t know what to say to you,” she said. “Is some of this because you’re mad about me marrying Cole?”

  “No! He told me all about that.”

  “We didn’t have a real marriage.”

  “I said he told me. For your information he’s not legally your husband anymore. He’s married to Lizzy.”

  “What?”

  “Your daddy and he had you declared dead. Leo Storm consulted teams of attorneys. The majority opinion is that Cole’s second marriage is legal—not yours.”

  “Is this about you then? Are you mad because you’re in love with somebody else?”

  Abigail. Guilt hit him like a blow. He gulped in a savage breath. He hadn’t
even thought about her once since he’d jumped into that courtyard.

  “Hell, no!”

  But Mia wasn’t buying it. “Why, that’s it.” She sounded strange and sad.

  The last thing he needed was to think about Abigail right now, and he damn sure wasn’t going to talk about her to Mia. No matter how all this came out in the wash, Abby was the last person he wanted to hurt.

  “I need to be alone right now,” he muttered. “Okay?”

  Mia made another one of those awful strangling sounds behind him that cut him up.

  “Okay.”

  Again he heard the hurt in her wounded tone.

  Damn it, he didn’t want to stomp all over her feelings when she’d already been through so much. He was behaving like a jerk.

  Hell.

  “I’m going for a walk in the park,” he said. “You stay put.”

  “In the park?”

  “It was a joke, okay?”

  “One I don’t get.”

  Cursing silently, Shanghai sprang down the stairs. Without looking back at her for fear of succumbing to her again, he headed north into the wild desert, losing himself within seconds in the dense sagebrush and thick darkness.

  He stabbed his hands through his hair. What was his hangup with Mia Kemble? He’d spent the better part of his life determined to avoid her. Now, no sooner had he bedded her than he felt like she owned him body and soul. Hell, here he was madder at her than ever but as hard as a pike again, too.

  Had Abby ever turned him on like this or made him feel half so much? Had any woman? Somehow in just a few hours, Mia had gotten under his skin so deep, he felt she was clawing out his guts.

  Was this love? Whatever it was, it damn sure had him feeling twisted inside.

  From the moment Cole had told him about Vanilla and his reason for marrying Mia, Shanghai had known he was in too deep and sure to sink even deeper.

  Sometimes it seemed he’d been running from Mia all his life. His first impression of her in the prison visiting room came back to him. Her golden eyes had been huge and glassy; her cheeks pale and hollow. Her thinness in that awful prison uniform that had clung to her in limp, dirty tatters had terrified him.

  Even though he’d been nasty, he’d felt an instant surge of protectiveness toward her. Tonight he felt those same feelings all over again, only more deeply. She had him trapped some way, just like Bad Boy had had him when his gloved hand had gotten tangled in his rope.

  She was the last woman he wanted to get involved with. The very last. It wouldn’t work. Sure, he had deep feelings, but he had damn good reasons for avoiding her. He needed to find a phone and call for help and rid himself of her fast before she really sank her hooks in him.

  When he returned, the cabin was so quiet and dark, that scared the hell out of him. His pulse racing with the fear he’d find her gone, he sprinted through the door only to hear her breathing steadily.

  She was asleep on the cot. As he gazed down at her, her thin face framed by clouds of hair, never had she looked so sweet and vulnerable. It was all he could do to resist the impulse to lie down beside her and cradle her in his arms.

  He let out an exasperated sigh.

  Was he dumb or what?

  He was a bull rider.

  Bull riding wasn’t a career bright men chose with great regularity.

  Hardly knowing what he did, he leaned down and kissed her brow. Then he covered her with a blanket before he went back outside to sleep alone on the porch.

  The tension in the library of the big house on the Golden Spurs felt as thick and heavy as a bowl of oatmeal that had sat out too long. Nobody felt more uptight than Terence Collins, especially when he stared at the poignantly happy family photos set out on several library tables, which were in stark contrast to the present mood in the library. He kept watching the phone, willing it to ring. Willing it to be them.

  If Mia or Shanghai died, he’d feel a personal responsibility.

  He needed a cigarette in the worst way. Naturally Joanne Kemble didn’t allow smoking inside her house.

  As a result of an acute nicotine deficiency, coupled with his gnawing guilt, the cherry walls and the tall bookcases were closing in on him. If he’d been wearing a tie, he would have been yanking at the knot. Still, ever the journalist, he couldn’t help studying the white-knuckled crowd jammed too tightly onto the leather couches. He had to admit this was a helluva story.

  Joanna Kemble had barely said a word to him since their brief conversation after he’d arrived and she’d coldly thanked him for arranging for protection in the prison so the helicopter could land. He’d apologized for not notifying her before the article came out. He’d said he was sorry about the hit man in the courtyard, who’d started shooting and had caused Wolf to abort the rescue.

  She’d stared at him coldly. “Who knows,” she’d finally said, “what’s right or wrong? If Mia lives, I’ll be in your debt forever. If she doesn’t, I may track you down someday and kill you.”

  For some reason Terence found himself watching Joanne. Although she was a widow, her grief didn’t show—if she’d ever even felt grief. Remembering Caesar’s affair with Electra, he wondered how much Joanne had known and if she’d loved the bastard at all.

  Terence was surprised at how sexy he found the aloof Joanne compared to Electra, who’d been known for her wild sex life.

  Electra had been too free and too selfish and too self-absorbed. Funny, that he of all people would object to that. He eyed his daughter, Abigail. Maybe he knew better than anybody how such independent, self-serving spirits could damage those they loved most.

  What an arrogant bastard he was! Me! Me! Me! Even now when maybe his cocky journalistic tactics and his desire to write something that could shock might get Mia Kemble killed, here he was at the story’s center, waiting like a vulture.

  You were only doing your job.

  Right.

  Life was always about choices and he’d made a lot of wrong ones.

  Joanne was tall and regal—cool and contained. She wore her streaked, red hair in a loose chignon. He’d seen pictures of her, of course, but she was much more striking than her photographs. Her jeans were as tight as a girl’s and her shape was perfect. Her boots were custom-made. Her cream silk blouse was buttoned all the way to her throat. Damn, if she didn’t look like a total tight-ass.

  Strangely the thought of her being prim and proper in bed turned him on. Not that a woman as rich as she would look at him. Especially when he’d been the one to write the article that had endangered her daughter—even if doing so proved to be the first step to free her.

  Shanghai’s half-black trainer, Wolf, who exuded excessive machismo, paced back and forth along the back wall. He was clearly very concerned about the fate of Shanghai and Mia. His frown grew deeper with the passing of each hour.

  Cole and Lizzy sat hunkered together, holding hands, talking mainly to each other on a low couch near a window that looked out onto a palm grove.

  Palm trees? Why did anybody bother with them? They didn’t provide a lick of shade and they were hell to prune. And when they froze, the damn things died. Not that you could tell a dead palm from a living one.

  He forgot the palms and watched Abigail, who’d persuaded him after much arguing to accompany her here to wait for Shanghai, her soon-to-be fiancé. Although Terence hadn’t met this rodeo character, he heartily disapproved of him. The man probably screwed every buckle bunny in the West.

  He’d been playing with Abby’s feelings. The bastard had bought a ring and then had refused to give it to her.

  Terence of all people should have understood men who couldn’t settle into a life of marital routine and dull domesticity. But hell. What father wouldn’t want a more reliable sort of husband for his daughter—a doctor or a lawyer maybe?

  Terrence shuddered to think how the families back East would react when they learned of Shanghai’s profession. They’d blame Terence, of course, for moving to south Texas, a place they stil
l considered a godforsaken wilderness. Just as they’d blamed him when the barbarians had kidnapped Becky.

  He hated the way Abigail fitted in at the ranch so well. She talked to everybody as easily as if she’d grown up here, even Leo Storm, the CEO, before he’d flown back to San Antonio.

  Being a reporter Terence eavesdropped to catch tidbits of conversation. Not that he hadn’t heard it all already. When there was no new news, people tended to repeat themselves, speculating uselessly. Still, there was always the chance for a new slant on the facts.

  “—I told you, Knight jumped—”

  “—the thug kept shooting—”

  “—hit him maybe—”

  “—they could be anywhere—”

  “—why the hell don’t they call—”

  “—it’s been hours—”

  When everyone stopped talking after the last comment, Joanne got up and pressed her hands together. “I’m going out to my birds.” Her smile was thin and controlled, but her pretty brown eyes were moist with pain.

  Had he caused it? A wave of compassion hit Terence. He remembered the frantic hours after Becky had vanished…and the dull days and then the weeks and years that had become forever. Then he and Dora had turned on each other.

  Mia’s plane had gone down sixteen months ago. Joanne had been through a lot already—even before he’d pulled this stunt.

  Joanne turned and smiled wanly to the group in general. The golden lamp lit her face and eyes, and he thought that even in this hour of sadness and uncertainty, she was as beautiful as a girl. It struck him that he hadn’t thought like this about a woman in years.

  He jumped to his feet. “Mind if I tag along, Joanne?” Was he insane? “Mind if I call you Joanne?” And getting more insane?

  Frowning, she hesitated a fraction of a second. It was clear that she didn’t want him.

  He was a pushy guy. “It’s a yes/no question,” he said, backing off. “I’ll understand—if the answer is no.”

  “Would you now?” Looking doubtful and yet mildly curious, Joanne’s brown gaze lingered on his face in a way that gave him hope.

  As the flicker of initial excitement inside him burned hotter, he forgot he wanted a cigarette. After what seemed an eternity, she lifted her chin and smiled.