Just This Once (43 page)

H
e stroked her
hair, his fingers winding gently through the vibrant red curls. The
warmth and gentleness of the simple touch set off a wave of
yearning inside her. His touch was so heartbreakingly gentle for a
man of such powerful proportions—and the expression in his eyes was
one of such warmth as she had never seen before.

No one—
no one
—had ever looked at her
in quite that way. Before she knew what she was doing, she moved a
step closer to him. “I’m cold. So cold. I just want to be
warm.”

“Then this is your lucky day. You see,
there’s three things I’m real good at, angel—shooting a gun,
tracking a man—and keeping women warm.”

She laughed in spite of herself, caught in
the spell of hard silver eyes, in the delicious sensation of a
strong hand caressing her neck. Then, as he pulled her slowly,
gently into his arms, Maura’s knees shook and she swayed. He caught
her with one swift movement and scooped her up.

His eyes were intent on her face as he
carried her toward the bed. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not,” she whispered, half
defiantly.

But that wasn’t true—her heart was
thundering like a train, and her breath felt trapped in her chest.
Yet she knew that she didn’t want to leave—not really. She was
cold. She wanted to be warm. She was lonely. She wanted to be held.
For just one night, this one damned empty, wild, blizzarding night
she wanted someone, something...

His chuckle scraped over her rough as burlap
as he lowered her onto the bed.

“Reckon you won’t need all these clothes,
Maura.”

“Don’t be so sure.” She sat up quickly on
the mattress, brushing a stray curl back from her cheek. “Even with
that fire”—she nodded toward the lovely golden-red blaze—“it’s
going to be awfully cold in here.”

“Don’t count on it, darlin’.” Amusement
gleamed in his eyes as he gave a tug at the tie that fastened her
robe. When its folds parted and she gasped, he gave a sudden sharp
laugh as he saw the red and black flannel nightshirt covering her
body, the navy blue woolen long johns encasing her legs, the brown
socks hiding even her feet.

“I see you like a man to work for his
pleasure.” He grinned. “Never figured you’d be so full of
surprises.”

“More than you know,” Maura muttered a bit
breathlessly, thinking dazedly of her virginity, of her own
recklessness at being here, at letting things progress so far. She
ought to warn him—no, she ought to
stop
him—but before she
could say a word, he pushed her back against the pillows with a
strength that shocked her, straddled her in one easy move, and with
a dark grin that curled her toes, he began to peel off everything
that stood in the way of what he wanted.

“Wait—wait just a minute!” Maura pushed his
hands away as he began to sweep her nightshirt over her head. She
tugged it back down. “I never said I would let you...”

“You never said you wouldn’t.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to say
anything!” Breathing hard, she knew she had to decide: stay or go.
Yes or no.

Once and for all.

“Well?” he growled. “What do you want to
say?”

Maura had no idea. She simply stared at him,
trying to think, trying to keep her mind on the decision before
her, when he looked so ruggedly handsome, all she could think about
was how she’d like to comb her fingers through his black hair, or
touch that dark stubble along his jaw, or... kiss him.

“Time’s up,” he announced suddenly, and with
one movement swept the nightshirt over her head and tossed it on
the floor. Her hair cascaded down, bright as the flames of the
fire, to swirl around her shoulders, and her golden-brown eyes went
wide with shock.

Now she wore only her thin white camisole
above the long johns and coarse brown socks. She was practically
naked.

“Just hold on a minute,” she cried.
Breathing hard, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “I have to
think.”

“I thought you wanted to stay warm.”

“Taking off my clothes doesn’t seem like the
way to do that!”

He seized her then, and pulled her close.
“Trust me—it works.”

For a moment she was dizzy with the nearness
of him. Her breasts were thrust up against his chest, the rough
flannel of his shirt scraped her tender flesh. His breath was warm
on her cheek, and his mouth was only scant inches away from
hers...

“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered
desperately.

There was a heartbeat of silence. Then he
spoke flatly.

“It’s Lassiter.”

Snowflakes hurled themselves against the
window as he braced himself for her reaction. He knew damn well
what was coming. It was always the same.

“Lassiter?” He heard her sharp intake of
breath. She jerked back, but not before he’d felt the slamming of
her heart against his chest, the shudder of fear jolting through
her bones.

“Not...
Quinn
Lassiter?” she asked in
a trembling voice.

“The same.” He watched her grimly. He knew
what they said about him, what she would believe just by hearing
his name.

Quinn Lassiter, deadliest man in the West.
Fastest gunfighter alive. There’s a lump of steel where his heart
should be. He kills as casually as most men spit.

She went pale as the snow swirling outside
the window. “I’ve heard of you,” she croaked.

He shrugged. “Probably a pack of lies.”

“They say you’ve killed more than twenty
men. Is that... true?”

“More or less. But—”

“And they say you shot Johnny the Kid
between the eyes, and captured the entire Melton gang
single-handed. Is that t-true?”

“I reckon. But—”

“And last spring,” Maura plunged on, her
pulse racing, “you fought three gunfights in one morning and killed
all three men with only two bullets...”

“It wasn’t anything special,” he growled. As
her lips parted and her eyes grew glassy, he lifted a brow. “I
reckon this means you
are
scared of me?”

His hands went to her bare, creamy
shoulders, so narrow and vulnerable beneath his fingers. She was
tense as a knot of wire. Fear, hesitation, and uncertainty vibrated
through her.

“Am I right? Answer me.”

“Scared? Why, no. Why in the w-world should
I be scared? It’s only—” Maura jerked back from beneath his hands
and bolted off the bed as though she’d been shot from a cannon. She
snatched up her nightshirt and held it in front of her like a
shield.

“It’s only that I forgot. Completely forgot.
You see, I left something on the stove. Burning on the stove. So
silly of me... careless, really. I have to go. Or we’ll have a
fire. I have to go... take it off the stove...”

“Maura.”

He reached out, seized her wrist, and yanked
her back into the bed. Whipping the nightshirt from her limp
fingers, he tossed it to the floor again.

“You think I’m going to shoot you?”

“Of course not. Only...”

“You think I’d hurt a hair on your
head?”

“N-no, never.” She glanced up at him from
beneath her lashes. “W-would you?”

“No. Never.” He cupped her chin in his hand
and forced her to meet his eyes. They were gray as slate, but
somehow his expression was softer, more rueful than it had been
before.

“I’m going to make love to you, angel. Real
nice, hot, hang-onto-your-hat love. If you want me to, that is.
I’ll keep you warm all night long. Fact is, I’ll make you sweat.
I’ll even make you burn.”

“You... will?”

“Yep. And you won’t need clothes, and you
won’t need fires.” He slid a hand slowly, languidly down her bare
arm and Maura shivered. “That’s a promise.”

Jill Gregory is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author of more than thirty historical
and contemporary novels and has been honored with the Romantic
Times Lifetime Achievement Award, as well as with back-to-back
Reviewer’s Choice awards for Best Western Historical Romance. Her
books have been published in more than twenty-four countries. Jill
grew up in Chicago and received her bachelor of arts degree in
English from the University of Illinois. An animal lover, Jill
loves long walks, reading, hot tea on a winter’s day, and the
company of friends. She lives in Michigan with her husband, and
enjoys her home overlooking the woods where the deer, rabbits,
squirrels, and an occasional owl or hawk come out to play. Visit
Jill on the web at
www.jillgregory.net
.