The Girl with the Golden Gun

by Ann Major

  “So, you never even think about maybe coming home?”

  His dark face went still. “After a few years, it didn’t seem like there was anything worth going back to Spur County for.”

  “Oh.” She felt faint, sick almost.

  “Black Oaks is a part of the Golden Spurs now.”

  “What about me?”

  What a naïvely romantic little fool she’d been. And still was. Last night had meant nothing to him.

  Her throat tightened. Suddenly she found conversation with him as tiresome as he apparently did.

  Struggling to regain her breath and remain cool and collected, she set her spoon down with a clatter and stood up. “I think I’ll take a short bath in the cattle tank after all.”

  “What? We need to head north. The sooner I get you back to your family, the better I’ll feel.”

  The sooner I scrub every place you touched me last night, I’ll feel better!

  “I won’t be long. I promise,” she said sweetly.

  Shanghai stared at the dove-gray sky and then at the ashes of the fire as he paced the porch while he waited for her. He was done boiling water and packing the canteens in his backpack. He’d straightened the cabin as best he could.

  I won’t be long. Famous last words.

  At first Shanghai was annoyed by the wait. Then when he yelled her name, and she didn’t answer, he grew alarmed as he thought about all the sorts of critters, even the two-legged variety that were attracted to watering-holes. Especially when there was a naked lady involved.

  He pulled his gun out of his waistband, and took off at a brisk trot for the pond. When he reached the thick sage and salt cedar that edged the water, he crouched low and held the gun high.

  Then he saw her.

  Fully dressed, she was standing perfectly still beside the pond watching a golden cougar drink on the opposite side. She didn’t seem the least bit afraid of the huge predator. Her eyes sparkled when several deer loped by. His attention on the cat, even though deer, its natural prey, seemed plentiful enough, Shanghai kept his gun out as he stole carefully up to stand beside her.

  She smiled when she saw him. “I was hoping you’d come and see this. It’s like the Garden of Eden.”

  The image of a man and a woman naked in a wild kingdom flickered on the edges of his testosterone-charged mind.

  “We’ve got to go,” he said in a low, abrupt tone.

  “I didn’t want to turn my back on him.”

  He aimed his gun toward the cat.

  “No—Don’t shoot him—”

  He fired two rapid shots. The bullets pinged off rocks a yard or two to the left of the cougar. Instantly the cat leapt into the sage, vanishing as quickly as a shadow when the sun goes away. Soon there were only faint rustlings in the brush as the big animal moved through it.

  “Why—”

  “It’s best not to get too familiar with them. Best for them, too.”

  He thought she would argue. Instead she said, “It’s so beautiful here, I’m sort of sorry to leave.”

  Her whiskey-dark eyes devoured him, forcing him to remember last night. He’d had fun here, too, with her. More than he should have. The memories were still eating him up.

  “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The childlike wonder in her eyes aroused all the emotions he didn’t want to feel.

  A lot of people would have seen only rough hills dotted with prickly pear and a few scrawny mesquite trees. He, too, found the land too beautiful—especially this morning with her beside him.

  “I used to watch the birds fly over the hacienda and long to be free. Now here I am. Free. Because of you. I can never repay you, Shanghai.”

  Nor I you, he thought.

  Shanghai couldn’t stop staring at her. She was so close he could see every individual eyelash and every pore of her glowing, creamy skin. Her red hair was damp and curly, and unruly tendrils blew about her flushed cheeks. Her throat glistened with dewy moisture from her recent bath. He remembered watching her bathe herself last night. He remembered how she’d writhed on top of him. She was driving him crazy.

  As he glared at her, she looked uncertain for a moment—until her pretty mouth quirked with flirtatious mischief. Sensing her power over him, she shot him an innocent, wide-eyed stare. Then she quickly lowered her lashes.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His head pounded as he fought an inner civil war to deny his desire for her.

  Failing, he moved closer, close enough to touch her. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What?”

  “You and me,” he said. “We’re natural-born enemies.”

  “Really? Is that what we are?” She began to laugh.

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

  “You always were a brat.” He put his arm around her.

  “You said I was a sweet kid.”

  “Very sweet,” he whispered, touching her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “God, I’ve been a rude bastard, haven’t I?”

  “Well, at least you know. So, are you going to apologize?”

  “I’m sorry. So damn sorry.”

  “Saying so isn’t enough. Let’s kiss and make up.”

  Cupping the back of her head, he lifted her face to his. When his lips touched hers, she opened her mouth. His tongue slid inside, and he pulled her closer. Instantly he was made dizzy by the taste of her and by the feel of her breasts against his chest. Without thinking, his hands caressed their fullness until her nipples ripened in his palms.

  Awareness of the exact spot where her pelvis arched against his fly, made desire race through his body like an electric shock.

  God.

  “You’re asking for it—again,” he muttered.

  “Is that what I’m doing?” She laughed at him. “I thought you were doing the asking.”

  “Not in a million.”

  “Okay then. Fine. Let me go!”

  When she pushed at his chest, he swung her into his arms.

  “Not in a million.” He carried her back to the cabin, stopping on the porch to kiss her again.

  He’d thought to make the kiss brief before taking her inside, but when his mouth seared hers and she moaned, he shuddered. All his anger and uncertainty dissolved in the excitement of that kiss. Her response was instantaneous and instinctive, and it heightened his own passion. When she kissed him with a ravening hunger, matching each thrust of his tongue, he knew he was lost.

  They never made it to the bed. He let her go, but just to unzip his jeans. He yanked her skirt up and her panties down as she stroked him down there. Then he grabbed her and pushed her against the wall of the cabin.

  When he touched her between her legs, she was wetter than last night. He thrust into her urgently. Then he seized her legs and pulled them around his waist. She squeezed him with her legs. She felt so good—hot and tight and slick, so tight. Perfect. He loved being inside her, loved holding her, kissing her. Loved every second he was with her even when she drove him crazy. He grew huge, ready to burst at any second.

  His heart began to slam against his rib cage as he forced himself to move slowly.

  She gasped and moaned and screamed his name. Her hands wound frantically around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair.

  “Now,” she begged. “Now. Please…”

  His hands gripped her bottom pulling her to him with a bruising strength.

  “Am I hurting you, darlin’?”

  She clung, sobbing in between soft little cries, her body surging in the same wild rhythm as his.

  Nobody ever had felt as wonderful as she did. Not even close.

  His body shuddered, exploded. For a long time he stayed inside her, wanting to hold on to her and stay with her forever.

  This was where he belonged. With her. Forever.

  Gently he smoothed her hair from her flushed face and eased out of her a little. He felt a blast of cool air gust between his burning body
and hers and instantly pulled her back. She opened her eyes, and he felt himself drowning in their sated, whiskey-colored depths.

  Her heart in her eyes, she smiled dreamily. “You’ll probably hate me again. But right now, I’m too happy to care.” She looked away, shy of him suddenly.

  Without meeting his eyes, she reached for his hand and brought it to her cheek. She let it rest there for a while. “I thought about you in Mexico…every day. Every night.” Then she began kissing each finger, one at a time.

  He swallowed a breath. She was so sweet. So precious to him. And he’d been such a bastard to her last night. The pain in his heart was as sharp as a knife.

  She leaned into him and traced the jagged scar on his shoulder with her fingertips. Next she kissed him there. When she looked up at him again, her face radiated a compassionate emotion too powerful to name.

  “I think you’ve been hurt a lot more than you’d ever admit.”

  Oh, God. He clenched his hands into tight fists. He felt so choked up, his breath all but stopped.

  “Bull riders have to be able to take pain.”

  “But do they ever get to let it out?”

  “Oh, darlin’…” He pulled her closer, wanting to hold on to her and this moment forever.

  He’d never felt like this—not in his whole life. He was drowning, dying, and it scared the hell out of him, rocked him, and shook him to his core.

  What the hell? So, he’d gotten laid a couple of times. So, she was the best damn woman he’d ever had. So, she had a pretty smile. So, she looked daffy after their incredible sex.

  It was just sex.

  Liar. She’s more than that and you know it.

  She’d been more than that for a long, long time. An image of himself strutting into arenas packed with fans flashed in his mind. He saw his imaginary self throwing his Stetson high in the air as he strode back and forth in his jingly spurs and jauntily pretended he was brave enough to ride the devil himself. Before this moment he’d thought he could never feel so loved as when the fans applauded him.

  His mouth tightened. Here he was, brought to his knees by this woman. It was bad enough that he’d betrayed Abigail, but Mia had to be a Kemble, too. Caesar’s daughter.

  Her family had robbed him of his birthright. She’d stolen his daughter and lied to him; she’d married his brother. Worst of all because of her last name, he could never measure up to her, never be good enough for her to be proud of him. By all that he held sacred, he should despise her.

  Instead he felt as clueless and guileless as a baby who found himself in a strange new world. All the rules he’d lived by and could have stubbornly died by had suddenly changed because they had been based on lies he’d fed himself.

  What the hell was he going to do about it?

  What the hell was he going to do about her?

  Nothing—that’s what!

  Fourteen

  Mia fumed as she stared impatiently up and down the asphalt road. She’d had it with Mr. Shanghai Knight. After incredible sex, he’d been sweet to her afterwards—for maybe a minute or two. Then he’d closed up on her again, as tight as a clam. He was all business—determined to get her home as quickly as possible so he could be shed of her for good. His cheerfulness toward her was due entirely to this goal.

  Well, she was fed up with his on-again, off-again brand of romancing.

  Maddened, she thumped her right foot as she stared down the road. Why couldn’t somebody just come and put them both out of their misery? But no! The desert was as ornery as her cowboy companion. There wasn’t a single vehicle on that narrow black ribbon that cut through sage and cacti for miles in either direction and shimmered against the far horizon.

  “Somebody will come along,” Shanghai said in such a deep, matter-of-fact, know-it-all voice she wanted to kick him. “You wanna place a bet on how long it’ll be? I say no more than five minutes.”

  Everything he’d done, said, or not said since they’d made love and left the cabin had annoyed her.

  “No, I don’t want to place a bet! I’m hot and I’m thirsty and I’m tired. You walk too fast, and my feet hurt.”

  “All you have to say is more or less than five minutes and we’ll have a bet.”

  At his good-humored tone, she hissed in a breath. The handsome jerk was enjoying her bad mood way too much.

  “I said I’m not betting you!” Her foot thumped harder.

  The sun blazed down on them from a cloudless blue sky that acted like a mirror, magnifying its intensity. Her black skirt and blouse and the shawl that covered her hair soaked in the heat rays.

  Being hot made her feel grumpier. Not that she could blame that on him. But then again, why couldn’t she? “How far do you think we walked?” she demanded.

  “Only three or four miles.”

  “Only?” The tender places between her legs felt raw from walking. That was definitely his fault.

  “Lucky thing we hit a road so fast,” he said smugly, looking entirely too pleased.

  “Lucky? We might as well be on the moon!”

  “Simmer down. Somebody will come along, and you’ll be rid of me.”

  “I can’t wait. But you said that five minutes ago!”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Not by much.” She kicked at a rock.

  He chuckled. “You got another rock in your shoe, darlin’?”

  “ No, I don’t have a rock! Thank you very much! And don’t call me darlin’!”

  “All right—Missy Ethel Mia Kemble. There, is that better?”

  “No! It isn’t better! I hate being called Ethel, which everybody in Spur County knows. Even you.”

  When he laughed, she stared down the asphalt road again. She was spitting mad. That’s what she was. He’d made love to her like he was crazed for her. Then he hadn’t said so much as a single nice word afterward. What was she—a mere sex object? A human doll to play with and discard once he’d had his fun?

  Quit thinking about it.

  “Sometimes I hate cowboys.”

  He laughed at that, too.

  “That wasn’t supposed to be funny!”

  “What’s eatin’ you anyway? You’ve been madder than a hornet ever since we left the cabin.”

  So, the thickheaded idiot had actually noticed! She sucked in a breath and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Great! I nearly get myself killed for you—and all I get is the silent treatment!”

  Was he really that clueless? “Would you just leave me alone?”

  “Gladly.”

  His obliging her so readily set a match to her temper.

  He’d barely said a single word afterward! He’d simply zipped his jeans up in silence after he’d finished his business, grabbed his backpack, stomped down the steps and headed north, hollering, without looking back, “You comin’?”

  He’d expected her to yank up her panties and follow him like a well-trained puppy. And she hated herself because she had. After she’d climaxed once again, she’d felt joined to him on a soul-deep level. When she’d come down from that mystical mountain, she’d felt soft and shy and tender, and she’d wanted to know what he felt, too. He’d been so sweet at first.

  She remembered holding his hand against her cheek because he’d seemed so dear, and the memory scalded her with shame.

  Where he was concerned she was such a dope.

  Well, two could play the not-speaking, not-caring game. From now on, she’d ignore him, too. She’d be as quiet as an oyster. As silent as a tomb.

  And no more sex. No more being jerked around by the torment of her emotions afterward.

  As she watched the road, she covertly glanced at him. His Stetson shaded the top part of his face. His mouth was set in a hard, straight line. Even so she remembered how it had felt on hers. His wide shoulders made him seem powerful. His jeans rode low on his hips, covering his muscular thighs and legs like a second skin.

  He was handsome, the sexiest man alive—at least to her—e
ven now when she was mad enough to bash his head in with a boiling pot. He didn’t seem the least bit upset by their love-making or by the fact she was irritated with him.

  Did he start every morning with a bit of wild sex and then proceed with his day like nothing important had happened? She began to wonder again about his regular girl.

  Her curiosity about the girl grew to a fearsome level. She itched to ask him.

  Of course, she couldn’t, not right now anyway—since she wasn’t speaking to him. She tapped her foot with a vengeance.

  Suddenly he swooped down to his knees beside her. Before she could react, he wrapped a big brown hand around the foot that had been restlessly thumping the asphalt. Instead of hollering or kicking at him, she froze at his touch as a million shock waves raced up her leg.

  Her pulled her shoe off and shook it out for her.

  Then he looked up at her, beaming fit to be tied. “You’re right, darlin’. No rock. Nothin’ but a little sand.” When he slipped her shoe back over her toes and heel, his large hand gave her a wonderful foot massage.

  “I said don’t call me darlin’.”

  “I reckon it’s a habit.”

  “Well, break it.”

  “Old habits die hard…er…sweetheart.”

  She could tell by his tone his mind was on sex.

  She pressed her lips tightly together. “Tell me about it.”

  He arose, smiling at her. “Hey, we’re startin’ to fuss like an old married couple.”

  She lunged at him then and poked a single fingertip into his hard, wide chest. “Well, we’re not! Maybe we slept with each other a time or two…”

  “Three times. Or have you forgotten Vegas?”

  “I tried! Believe me I tried! Which means you’re the last man I’d ever marry, Shanghai Knight! The very last!”

  “Well, ditto—darlin’! Ditto!”

  His words cut—even though they were a jovial response to her angry remark.