by Heidi Betts
She shot him a quelling glare and stalked across the room, giving him her back. This was not the way she'd envisioned herself helping David save his sister and nephew.
While he hid their belongings deep in the closet she'd just vacated, Hannah moved in front of the long chest of drawers, topped by a wide mirror, that lined one wall.
The gown was ghastly; there was no denying it. And certainly nothing a proper woman should be caught standing anywhere near, let alone in.
It had an off-the-shoulder design with one of the lowest bodices she'd ever witnessed. And even though she couldn't fill the bust nearly as well as she knew one of Cora's girls would, she had to admit that it didn't look half bad on her. She'd never bared so much pale skin before, and the early evening air brought out tiny beads of goose flesh on her uncovered shoulders, chest, and the hollow area between her breasts.
The bright taffeta hugged her form like scales on a snake, the sewn-in bones—hidden behind vertical rows of the same material in black—digging into her ribs and almost cutting off her breath. The skirt flared out slightly, aided by layers of attached petticoats that showed beneath the knee-length hem.
She wasn't sure what to be more embarrassed by—the extremely low bodice, showing most of what God had seen fit to gift her with, or the high-cut skirt that made visible entirely too much of her legs. She hadn't revealed so much as an ankle in public since childhood.
Waving a hand in front of her face, she tried to dispel the heat of a blush from her cheeks, even as the chicken flesh over her bosom grew larger.
Taking all of these discomfitures into consideration, Hannah wondered how she could still find the gown almost . . . alluring.
Judging by the number of working girls downstairs dressed similarly to this, and the bevy of cowboys eagerly swarming around them, she gathered men liked women in this type of garment. Which might explain the look David had given her when she'd first appeared in the barely there outfit.
He was attracted to her. He liked seeing her dressed this way. Or maybe the sight of so much of her bosom would cause any man to stare. It certainly had her bug-eyed.
She tugged ineffectually at the dipping dress front and then turned to face David as he finished clearing the room of any sign of their presence.
"What do we do now?” she asked.
His gaze skimmed her getup once more and she hitched a hip seductively. At least she hoped the pose came across as seductive. She'd never really attempted to attract a man before, so she couldn't be sure.
"We're going to hide Bright Eyes and Little Bear behind the bed, and then you and I are going to pretend to be conducting business."
Hannah felt her brows shoot up. Conducting business? She looked down at the dress she was wearing and wondered why she hadn't figured out this portion of his plan sooner.
The room, decorated in gold and burgundy, seemed to spin around her, and a high-pitched squeal sounded in her ears. Just how for would he expect her to go to play out this particular charade? With other people in the room.
The thought made her palms turn sweaty.
David moved to his sister's side and helped her round the bed, then waited for Little Bear to slither beneath the frame of the four-poster before lowering Bright Eyes down beside him. Because of her burgeoning belly, she couldn't fit all the way under like her son, but would be adequately hidden in the small space between bed and wall. Provided no one searched the room too closely, of course.
And Hannah assumed she was the one they were relying on to keep that from happening.
"Oh, mercy,” she breathed, slapping a hand to her forehead in despair.
When she raised her head, David stood towering above her. A completely inappropriate grin split his face.
"Ready?"
She pinned him with a wry glance. “Do I have a choice?"
"Not anymore. Although, if you'd chosen to keep Little Bear back in Purgatory with you, you might not be in this mess now."
She didn't miss the pointed look he cast at her shiny purple gown.
"Thank you. I'll remember that for the next time I'm able to set the clocks back and relive my life. Unfortunately, your nephew is as stubborn and thickheaded as you are.” Her demeanor wasn't the least bit kind, and she didn't apologize for it.
Then she sighed, resigned to her leg-baring, cleavage-exposing, purple-dressed fate. “What do you want me to do?"
"Sit on the bed and look like you've just finished servicing me."
"Excuse me?"
Her mouth fell open and her eyes all but popped out. And David—blast his hide—had the nerve to chuckle.
"You're too innocent for your own good, notsa?ka?. And normally I'd do my best to protect you from this sort of thing. But this time, I'm afraid we don't have much choice in the matter."
Unbuckling his gun belt, he set it carefully on the bedside table. Then he crossed his arms over his midriff and pulled off his buckskin shirt.
Catching sight of the shocked expression she knew must be gracing her face, his lips lifted. “Don't worry, Hannah, I'm not actually going to make love to you. Not yet, anyway,” he added in a whisper meant for her ears only. “We just need to make it look like you work here and I'm a paying customer."
"Won't Lynch recognize you?” she found the presence of mind to ask, still riveted by the bronze flesh and sculpted muscles of his bare chest.
"Hopefully not, if I'm under the covers with my back turned.” He threw his shirt to the far side of the room and began kicking off his boots. “Your appearance is going to need a little work, though. Come here."
He crooked a finger, beckoning her close. At first she hesitated; then she took a step forward.
His hands wrapped around the back of her head and he gave her hair a great tousle. Then his fingers moved to the buttons at the front of her dress.
She immediately threw her arms up to block his movements, but he merely pushed them aside and slipped two or three tiny metal hooks from their eyes.
"You need to look well-loved, notsa?ka?.” Moving to the bed, he started to shuck his pants. “And you may want to turn around if you don't want to see me in the altogether."
Was it just her imagination, or did it take her an exceptionally long time to avert her gaze? Facing the other direction, she kept her eyes tightly closed, too afraid she might be tempted to glimpse his nakedness in the dresser mirror.
She heard the bed frame creak, and then David called out, “All right, I'm decent."
Without thinking or knowing what to expect, she spun around . . . and sucked in a deep breath of air.
Decent was definitely in the eye of the beholder.
Covered to the waist by a thin, white sheet, David reclined against the mahogany headboard. His long black hair fell like a shroud over the pillow at his back.
"Your turn,” he said gently.
Step by slow step, she made her way to the edge of the bed. She was supposed to climb in with him? Under the covers? Without him wearing a stitch of clothes?
Because she definitely didn't believe he was the sort of man to wear something as civilized as drawers beneath his well-worn leather trousers.
"You don't need to lie down,” he said, unwittingly putting her mind at ease. “I think it would look better if you just sat down, rumpled your skirts a bit, and waited for Lynch or one of his men to come in. If you can take off your stockings and pretend to be rolling one back up when he opens the door, all the better. Like I said, we need to make it look as if we just. . ."
"Did the deed,” she supplied flatly. “Yes, I understand that part. And what will you be doing while I'm rolling my stockings up and down?"
She heard the amusement in his voice when he replied, “Sleeping, of course. That sort of thing always wears me out. I'll have my back turned. Hopefully they won't notice the length of my hair behind you and under the pillow. If they suspect I'm an Indian, they'll want to have a closer look, and there's no doubt they'll recognize me. Try to keep them from seeing too mu
ch of what's behind you, if you can."
Her tongue held a sharp retort on its tip. Something about her new dress making it hard to hide much of anything, let alone a full-grown, naked man, stretched lengthwise at her back. Instead of giving voice to that thought, however, she swallowed hard and gave a slight nod.
She was one woman, four-and-twenty years old. Five and a half feet tall, coming only to David's chin. She'd been told that with her slight build, she looked as though a strong breeze would blow her over.
Yet she was supposed to use her body, her feminine wiles, and a painted-on purple gown to protect three other people from a large, looming, very bad man.
The mattress bounced beneath her and Hannah bounced with it as David got situated.
"Can you hand me my gunbelt?” he asked her, the words muffled as they hit the wall before him and ricocheted back to her.
Her gaze went to the reddish-brown holster resting on the nightstand. Reaching out, she slowly wrapped her hand around the smooth leather that held his six-shooters.
She twisted around to pass him the weapons, and the warm, callused pads of his tan fingers brushed the top of her hand as he rolled toward her to take it. A spark of sheer awareness rocked through her flesh, through her blood, through her bones. It beat a staccato rhythm to the very center of her being and warmed her from the inside out.
Without taking his eyes off her, David placed the Peacemakers and all their trappings on the stark white sheet near his stomach and then lifted the same hand to cup her cheek.
She'd gone pale, she knew, even if it felt as though steam was about to seep out of her pores.
"Soon, notsa?ka?. This will all be over soon. And then we'll see about . . . the rest."
His meaning was clear, and she didn't pretend not to understand. It almost comforted her to know she wasn't alone in feeling as though a thunderstorm was brewing in her belly.
Almost, but not quite.
She started to turn away, but he caught her wrist, holding her in place.
"There's just one more thing,” he murmured softly.
The coffee brown of his eyes riveted her, created the sensation of floating, being swept downstream and not caring enough to fight the current.
"What's that?” she heard herself ask in a husky, breathy voice she scarcely recognized as her own.
Rather than answering verbally, his palm slid from the side of her face to the back of her head, tangling in the loose fall of her hair. His mouth came down on hers unexpectedly, causing her to gasp. But the sound was lost as he molded his lips to hers, pressing and licking and smoldering her into acquiescence.
The kiss was hot and hard, their teeth and tongues scraping. She thought her lips might be bruised by the end but wasn't sure she cared.
She certainly didn't attempt to pull away. Instead, she leaned closer, brought up her arm to touch his bare shoulder. His skin burned like fire beneath her fingers and a muscle in his biceps spasmed.
When he finally released her they were both breathing heavily, sucking oxygen into their deprived lungs. Without conscious thought, her fingertips went to her lips, tracing the love-swollen ridges. She considered swearing off food and drink so nothing would wash away the delicious taste of David and his kisses.
"Well-loved,” he said, carefully removing his hand from the long strands of her hair. “No one could ever doubt it."
Chapter Thirteen
He never should have kissed her. It was necessary, however—or at least it made her look more appropriate to the part she was about to play.
Unfortunately, aiding her to come across like she'd just made love only made him want to do exactly that. Gaudy dress or worn trousers, lives in jeopardy or not, he wanted Hannah. Only covering his torso with the thin sheet and lying with his face to the wall kept that fact from being patently obvious.
And as soon as they got out of this—if they got out of this—he was going to see that she knew it.
He only hoped she was amenable, even if it meant burning in hell or swinging at the end of a rope for ever touching her. At this point, it would be well worth the gamble. Whatever his punishment.
Turning away from her before he started something he couldn't finish—or before she saw something in his face he wouldn't have time to explain—he unsnapped the safety strap of his holster and slid one of the revolvers out just a fraction for easy access.
He didn't want to use it. There were too many innocents in the room who could catch a stray bullet. And Hannah would be right in the line of fire.
But if worse came to worst, he was more than willing to shoot Ambrose Lynch straight between the eyes, and would do everything he could to keep Hannah safe in the process. Not to mention Bright Eyes and Little Bear.
Tugging the sheet to his waist and twisting his hair beneath his body and the pillow so it would appear shorter than it was, he wrapped his hand around the grip of the gun and prepared himself for Lynch's—or one of his men's—impending arrival.
Over his shoulder, he asked Hannah, “Are you all right? Are you ready for this?"
"I'm rolling."
"What?” He almost bent back around but knew that would disrupt the pose he'd worked so hard to make look authentic. Instead, he merely cocked his head a fraction and strained to see her in his peripheral vision.
"You told me to make it look like I'm getting dressed again after. . ."
She trailed off, unwilling to put a word to what she was supposed to look like she'd been doing. Walker grinned and was glad she couldn't see it.
"So I'm rolling my stockings up and down. First one, then the other, up and down, up and down. . .. “She sounded bored and far from happy with the situation she'd been forced into.
Her tone had little effect on Walker, however; he was too busy picturing Hannah's every slow, erotic movement. Perched on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, skirts hiked to her thighs. The tight bodice he'd unbuttoned himself gaping open in a wide vee. The small, white globes of her breasts straining against the black stays and purple material, possibly coming close to popping free as she leaned forward to roll and unroll these sheer, silky stockings that had come with the gown.
And he didn't even want to think about her legs. Thanks to the short skirt of the saloon-girl dress, he now knew exactly what they looked like, down to the smallest detail. Long and shapely and seeming to go on forever before they disappeared beneath the hem of her gown. The image of her running her hands continuously over those attractively curved limbs had the sheet tenting around his groin and his grasp tightening on the butt of the pistol.
How likely was it that Lynch and his men would believe he was another of Cora's satisfied customers if he was still sustaining an El Paso-size arousal?
He shifted restlessly beneath the bedclothes and tried to slow his racing pulse by taking slow, deep breaths.
Somewhere down the hall, he heard a muffled female shriek. Then angry male expletives and a door slamming shut. A few seconds later, the scene played itself out again. And again, growing closer to the room they occupied.
Walker's gut clenched, his muscles tensing.
"Get ready,” he warned Hannah in a whisper. Below him, he heard his sister's breathing hitch in alarm, then grow silent.
He tried to relax, told himself he needed to appear completely sated and deeply asleep. He just hoped whoever checked this room wouldn't look too closely at the scene within.
When the door finally burst open, Hannah gasped and rocked back on the bed. He felt the mattress lurch with the motion. She couldn't have been surprised by the stranger's sudden entrance, and Walker found himself both astounded and proud of her excellent acting skills. His own body was frozen, poised to react.
"Pardon me, ma'am,” Walker heard a man greet her from the doorway. He couldn't tell if the low voice belonged to Lynch or not; he hadn't been in contact with the bastard enough to be familiar with his speech patterns.
"I'm lookin’ for someone,” he went on. “A stinkin’ half-breed Injun wha
t kidnapped the woman of a friend of mine."
"I'm afraid I can't help you,” Hannah replied, her tone taking on something between a drawl and a slur. “There are no Indians in here. And there ain't nobody in there, I can promise you,” she said when the man's gaze apparently strayed to the closet. “I get extra when folks wanna watch, and this fella—"
Walker imagined her cocking her head in his direction and hoped the gesture didn't draw too much attention to his supposedly sleeping form.
"He hardly had enough for one quick tumble, let alone bringing an audience."
For a couple of minutes that felt to Walker like years, the man didn't say anything. And then he heard a floorboard creak and the stranger mumbled, “Sorry to bother you, ma'am. I'll let you get back to your . . . um, business."
"No problem,” Hannah told him, uninterested. Just before the door clicked shut, she called out, “And, mister . . . stop back sometime when you aren't in such a hurry."
Walker's teeth ground together at that, and his trigger finger flexed reflexively at the amusement in the man's voice when he responded.
"Ill do that."
Two seconds after the door closed, just as Walker was thinking they were home free, Hannah lost it.
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod."
Jumping off the bed, she waved her hands frantically in front of her face and hopped from foot to foot in a little panic dance. Her bodice still gaped open, revealing a fair amount of the porcelain flesh of her chest, and one silky stocking had fallen, bunched now about her left ankle.
Walker bit his tongue, hard, to keep from laughing aloud. She'd probably clobber him if he did, but she looked so damn adorable with her cheeks flushed, her breasts bobbing, and her lips moving in a constant stream of distraught mumbles.
"Hannah, sweetheart.” Since he was naked as a jaybird, he couldn't jump up and go to her the way he wanted. Letting go of his revolver and leaving it on the mattress, he tugged the corners of the sheet free and wrapped it around his waist as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed.
