Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (12 page)

Where in hell had she learned that?

He stepped away. She stayed where she was. The sight of her on her knees with the dying rays of the sun slanting across her, hair tumbling over her breasts, boots and stockings still on, eyes wide and green, both aware and aroused, made him realize something.

He didn’t care.

He shrugged off his shirt, dropped his pants, lost his own boots and socks. She watched, the gaze that brushed his body gentle as a caress.

Coming to her feet, she slid her palms up his thighs. “Shh,” she murmured when he tensed. “Let me see.”

Then she closed her eyes and traced those palms over him, as if she were learning his curves and dips, the hard and soft places. Or maybe she merely remembered. Her fingers curled over his shoulders, thumb trailing the insides of his arms. Her belly brushed his cock, and it leaped. Her lips curved, one hand dropping lower, coiling around him, tightening, testing.

“Shh,” she said again. “Just…shh.”

He didn’t point out that he hadn’t said anything. Instead, he watched her as she touched him, and he fought not to lose control. He who had always been completely in control. Especially of situations like these. He’d had so many women so many ways. He’d had her. But he’d never
had
her. He’d discovered that when she disappeared from his life without a single word of farewell.

Her supple fingers still around him, he grasped her wrist and her eyes opened. The sudden urge to make her his as she’d never been his consumed him. Problem was…

He didn’t know how.

If she hadn’t been dazzled by his prowess before, she certainly wasn’t going to be now. Then again…

She stood with one hand still on his chest; the other he held clasped in his own.

If at first you don’t succeed—

Alexi twirled her around in a quick two-step, then released her so that she fell onto the bed. “Try, try again,” he murmured, and followed.

She was breathless—smiling, almost laughing. But the mirth died when he removed her boots, then drew her stockings down her legs, trailing kisses in their wake before he stood. He let his gaze wander over her as she’d let hers wander over him. Then he touched her—eyes, fingertips, lips, tongue—in places he’d never touched her before.

The inside of the right knee.

The outside of one thigh, where leg ripened into the sloping swell of a buttock.

A rib. The hip. Her wrist.

Her fingers fluttered over his hair. Neck. Shoulders. Back. Eventually she began to tug. He ignored her.

Belly button. Left ear—high up where her hair lay. Crook of the elbow.

Low, desperate gasps broke from her throat. She began to whisper suggestions in his ear.

Now. Hard. Fast.

But never
please.

When he nibbled her jaw, right at the tip, the part she led with whenever she was desperate, the hands on his arms clenched and she shoved. He tumbled, landing on his back with a bounce that was interrupted when she straddled him. He tried not to smirk, but it was hard.

She lifted herself just enough to take him within and began to move.

Very hard.

Her eyes slid closed; her breasts shimmied, then shimmered in the dusky light through the window. He began to reach for them and without even opening her eyes she caught his hands, wrapping her fingers between his, then pinning them to the bed—palm to palm.

“Let me,” she said.

“
Sicherlich,
” he murmured, and she opened one eye. “Certainly,” he translated.

Sometimes the words he’d learned during the most trying period of his life slipped out when he least expected them to. He couldn’t help it. Learning other languages was how he’d once kept himself from going mad. As she was attempting to drive him mad now, it was understandable that the expressions trembled on the tip of his tongue, where he wanted her to be.

She held his hands motionless. He held himself in check by reciting in his head all the ways that he knew to say her name.

Gato.

Katze.

Chat.

Kot.

Macska.

She opened her eyes, and a crease appeared between them as if she didn’t quite know where she was.

“Cat,” he whispered, and she stilled, gaze gone wide—trapped, or perhaps captured. He was.

She shifted, and for an instant he feared she meant to leave—lift herself from his body, roll away, run away—and he caught his breath. What would he do? Stop her? Force her to stay? He thought not, even though by all rights, she was his. He had won.

Anything.

Anyway, anyhow, any why and where and what. But he didn’t want her like that; he wanted her…

Well, he just wanted her.

She was fire, burning around and within him, pain and passion, need. When he closed his eyes all he saw was her; when he opened them, there she was—no longer a dream but reality. He hadn’t understood how very much he’d missed her. How that hollow feeling inside had been the lack of her and not the lack of success, money, danger, women. He had gorged himself on all four, but he hadn’t felt like this since the last time he’d gorged himself on her.

Alexi let his gaze wander up the slim curves of the woman still riding him as if her life depended on the journey. No man could resist that, especially not a man like him.

She shifted her hips, taking him deeper, rocking slower, the bud within her sliding over his head and making him bite his lip to keep from finishing before she did. She knew exactly how to make him come. But then he knew exactly the same thing about her.

Though she still held his hands, she did not hold his mouth, and those breasts, ah, they were so close. He captured one rose-hued tip, and she gasped, biting her own lip, though she kept shifting, rocking, arousing him. As he kept arousing her.

Suckling, pushing her against the roof of his mouth, first slowly, gently, then faster, harder, the movements of her body echoing his.

She stiffened, clenching around him, forgetting to breathe, releasing his hands. He lifted up, gathering her against him, holding her as she came, coming himself, unable to keep from joining her one second longer.

When he fell back upon the mattress, she followed, pressing her cheek to his chest. Cat had never been one to remain entangled afterward. Usually she turned
away, not leaving his bed, but leaving just the same. This time she cuddled against his side like a—

“
Koshka
,” he whispered, and ran his palm over her hair.

When she sighed, then slept, he did the same. As he drifted off, he had one final thought.

Perhaps he did know how to make her his after all.

Cat waited until Alexi’s breathing evened out; it didn’t take long. After that performance, it shouldn’t.

She glanced again at the window, but the sun had gone down and the angle was wrong. She could no longer see the familiar hillside in the distance. Which was good. Because the sight of it had nearly sent her over the edge.

Cat slid from beneath the sheets. Alexi didn’t move; his breathing continued with exactly the same rhythm it had held before. That of a deeply satisfied male. Exactly what she’d been aiming for when she touched him.

Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the interlude. Alexi Romanov was a connoisseur—of the fine art of confidence, of women, of languages, but especially of sex. He’d taught her that the act could be about something other than love. More important, he’d taught her that it could be about something other than hate.

She glanced toward the bed as she dressed in his discarded clothing. There was one other thing she didn’t think Alexi had meant to teach her, but she was nothing if not a good mimic.

The body could be used as a weapon. By a woman as well as a man. The lesson had served her well over the time they’d been apart. There were times when that lesson had saved her life.

She mouthed a silent curse when she slid into his
shirt, realized she’d yanked off the buttons and had to root around in his bag for another. As she put it on, she caught the scent of rain and glanced again at the bed, expecting to glimpse his blue eyes shining against the darkness, perhaps even a pistol pointed in her direction. But he was still asleep, gun belt slung over the bedpost, hair stark against the creamy sheets, skin both smooth—across his chest—and rough—across his jaw.

He was quite possibly the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She enjoyed looking at him. She also enjoyed talking to him, traveling with him, working next to him, and sleeping with him.

Which meant she had to go. Enjoyment had no place in her life. Enjoyment made you soft. Liking someone made you vulnerable. Loving him could get you dead.

Worse, it could get
him
dead.

The only reason she’d gone anywhere near Alexi was because he could take care of himself. No one got the better of that man. If they even tried, Mikhail made sure they never did so on a second occasion. However, because she felt safe with him, with Mikhail, she hadn’t been paying attention. She hadn’t been watching where they were going, hadn’t realized where they were. And now…

She would have to go there again.

Cat lifted the gun belt, careful not to make a sound or rattle the bed. She’d left her six-shooters in the signora’s room, and Mikhail had no doubt moved them when he’d moved himself and their horses out of town.

She hadn’t wanted to leave the weapons behind, but Meg Nelson would never carry a worn pair of Navy Colts. She wouldn’t be able to fit them over her pregnant belly.

Cat’s hand was reaching for her own flat stomach before she realized it. She clenched her fingers until they ached and forced her arm back to her side. She’d liked
being Meg, feeling that weight against her, imagining it move, dreaming of a child with her green eyes, his dark hair. Or maybe his blue eyes and—

Suddenly Cat couldn’t breathe. Blue eyes? Billy’s had been brown.

She rubbed her face. Foolish dreams, foolish thoughts. She’d never have a baby. And not just because riding across the prairie searching for someone—
the
one—to kill would be damn difficult if she were expecting, but because she wasn’t capable of it.

She and Billy had tried. Her eyes burned as she remembered how very much they had wanted a child, but she had never quickened.

Not. Once.

As she’d told Alexi the single time he’d asked, she was barren. And nothing since then had proved her wrong. Why did that make her sad? Would it have been better to have Billy’s baby or worse? What would she have done with a child?

More important…

What would
they
have done?

T
he instant Alexi’s eyes opened, he knew she was gone.

He’d been here before, and just like that time, he hadn’t seen it coming.

Sitting up, he glanced toward the window. She’d been obsessed with that window, or something she’d seen through it. She’d been nervous. She’d made him nervous, and then—

His gaze switched to the table. The cards still lay where they’d placed them. Alexi got a very bad feeling.

Sliding from the bed, he stalked naked across the floor, let his fingertips drift over his two beautiful ladies dancing with his two solemn gents. Then he flipped her hand faceup.

Full house.

Alexi contemplated the door through which she must have gone. “What in hell are you up to?”

But he thought he knew…at least the first part. She’d wanted to slip away, and he wasn’t going to let her. Not alone. Not anymore. So she’d concocted a plan. First suggest cards. Once he was hooked, up the ante. Promise him anything. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

Alexi lifted what was left in the deck and bent them with one hand, then released them, flinging the cards
across the room in a glorious waterfall. They splayed across the floor with a soft whoosh.

“But she won,” he murmured.
She
could have had anything, and if what she’d wanted was to go, he would have let her. He didn’t welsh on bets. Ever.

However, did Cat know that? What if she believed that the instant she asked to leave he would tie her up, toss her on a horse, and take her away from here to prevent her from…what?

He looked out the window again. He had no idea. But it had been important enough to let him win. Important enough to touch him without pretending to be someone else for the first time he could remember. Unless, of course, she had been.

Alexi had been touching Cat, but perhaps, in her mind, Meg had been touching Jed and vice versa. In the past, they’d always come together in the guise of the parts they had played. It was easier that way. Safer. Both more exciting and less upsetting. For both of them.

If such had been the case in the past, then why should now be any different? And why had he thought it was?

Alexi stifled a wince. Cat had swindled him with her body, voice, and eyes the same way she’d swindled him with the cards. She’d known what his choice would be. From the moment she’d told him he couldn’t have her, she was all that he’d wanted.

She’d known that, being a man, once his pecker was involved he would not be able to think with anything else. Then, once he was done “thinking,” he’d sleep through her escape, as any satisfied man would. Considering the enthusiasm of their encounter, he was surprised he wasn’t still snoring.

Hell, she hadn’t even waited for him to voice his decision, because there had been no decision. She’d lifted her lips, and he’d been lost.

Alexi contemplated the window again. Should he go after her?

“
Oui?
” he murmured into the darkness. Or…“
Nein?”

He couldn’t decide. Then his gaze fell on the empty bedpost. “
Zur Hölle mit dir!
” He searched for his clothes, found only hers. “
Zur Hölle mit mir,
” he finished on a sigh.

She’d taken his only pair of pants and his last clean shirt—everything else he owned was with Mikhail—leaving behind his socks, boots, and the garment she’d torn apart.

He eyed Meg Nelson’s dress and stifled a laugh. Cat might be able to don Alexi’s apparel, but there was no way he had a prayer of squeezing into hers.