She looked as if she might flee at that moment. He could still hear the voices in the hallway.
“Are you going?” he demanded.
“Now?” She seemed appalled at the thought. Maybe she was afraid that Loralee would be furious if she didn’t prove her worth. Whatever, he definitely wasn’t in the mood for any games.
“Yes, now! Damn you, I just said that I didn’t want you here. But you are here. But if you don’t want to be here, get out! Is that clear? Just get out!”
“No!” She shook her head wildly.
He caught her arm, mindless of the slight cringe she made, and drew her past him. He set his hand upon the door bolt and slammed it, then set his hands upon his hips as he faced her. “You needn’t look so damned panicked. You’re not going to be seen with me. No one can get in here.”
“No one can get in,” she said.
“Of course not.”
He tried to curtail his impatience. But hell, this was one strange whore, and he’d already told Loralee that his mood was wretched.
She was still staring at him, and the way that she did so was irritating.
Insulting.
He almost wished that she had gone.
But staring back at her didn’t calm the cyclone brewing within him. The heat of his very basic lust was growing. Maybe Loralee had been right, had known exactly what he needed. Whiskey to blur the edges. Some good, fast sex to burn off the fever and passion rolling like the wind within him. Standingcloser to her in the flickering firelight, he was made ever more aware of her startling beauty. The girl should have been pouring tea in an aristocrat’s dining room, not whoring in a dust-covered mining town. But people made their choices. The clothing she wore was obviously very expensive. Apparently, she had rich tastes. Lucky for her, she was probably going to do damned well out here.
His gaze rested on her throat, the ivory whiteness of it, a pulse beating against it. His gaze lowered. His insides quickened. Her breasts were all but spilling over the corset.
He didn’t want her to go.
Yet still…
She was looking at him with that same trace of alarm in her eyes.
He approached her again, grabbing her hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails. An elegant hand. He drew it to him. Opened a button on his shirt and placed her hand against his chest. “Do you have a problem with Indians?” he demanded.
She jerked her hand free. “Are you an Indian?”
His brows shot up, and he looked at her incredulously. “Do I look Norwegian?” he asked slowly.
She extended a hand, indicating the cavalry jacket he had thrown across the foot of the bed. “I—thought you were an officer.”
“I wonder about that myself,” he murmured. He stared at her again. “I ask you once more, do you have a problem with?—”
He broke off. She wasn’t listening to him. Again, she seemed to be paying attention to whatever was going on in the hallway.
The hell with it. He’d drunk too much. The right thing at the time. Now it seemed that war drums were pounding in his head, coursing through his body. Loud, hammering, demanding. Sheer forgetfulness was at hand, appeasement for the thunder pulsing through him.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he took a step, closing the gap between them. Caught her face between his two hands. Brought his mouth down hard upon hers. She tasted like mint. Her lips were rich, provocative. He wanted more of them. He drove his tongue between her lips, drawing her hard against him. Her breasts rose, lush and tempting, against his chest, which was bared now. Again he felt the rise of an almost overwhelming desire, stronger than anger, irritation, impatience, bitterness. The deeper he kissed her, the stronger his desire became.
Her hands were on his chest, pushing free. He groaned deeply, unwilling at first to let her go, his desire suddenly so strong that he was tempted to throw her down upon the bed with the brutal force firing its way into his being. He made himself free her. “Damn you, go!” he shouted, shoving her toward the door. She reached it. Her fingers fumbled at the bolt. He thrust past her, opening the bolt.
He heard the voices again. A man speaking. “If I can find the younger girl first?—”
He heard no more because she had spun in his arms, slipping beneath the one to stand in the center of the room again. He stared at her, baffled, as she stared back at him. Her eyes huge. Her lips damp, slightly swollen, very provocative. Her robe all the way open. Her breasts heaving with each gulp of air she took.
He fought for control. “Woman, if you don’t want to be here, go!” he exploded with impatience.
She focused on him, really focused on him. “I—” she began, then broke off, and apparently came to some decision. For a moment, her lashes covered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I—I’m afraid you’re right. I was just—thrown. You are an Indian. Part Indian.”
