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Patrick broke into a deep, hearty laugh. “If Malvina were here, she would wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, and began laughing herself.

  Sloan, on his way out of the hotel, stopped in the doorway of the dining room, recognizing instantly the laughter he was hearing as Brianne’s. He had felt a stirring of desire when he had first seen her gaily circling the corral this afternoon. Later as she had stood naked and indignant in her bath, desire had returned stronger, although, he did have to admit he hadn’t expected the flames that had flared when he had kissed her. Now, hearing the light musical tones of her laughter, desire once again visited him.

  Sloan knew that nothing would come of the attraction he felt for her. Even if the lady might be willing, he wasn’t. He would allow nothing to draw his attention away from his main purpose for being here. This attraction he felt for Brianne was pleasant but temporary. Still the evening did stretch endlessly ahead of him, and so he let himself be drawn to the laughter.

  Brianne glanced up just as a lightning bolt slashed to earth, illuminating the room and the dark, hard features of the man who was suddenly standing beside their table. Him!

  His tall, lean frame was fitted perfectly in a fashion- ably cut black suit with a white shirt and perfectly folded cravat. A heavy gold watch and chain gleamed against the fine material of his vest. And he still wore his gun tied to his thigh.

  He inclined his head politely. “I’m Sloan Lassiter from New York City,” he said. “I’m staying at this hotel for a few days. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but I was just passing the dining room when I happened to see you and decided to come in and introduce myself.”

  Patrick stood and extended his hand. “How do you do. I’m Patrick Delaney, and this is my sister, Brianne.”

  Sloan shook Patrick’s hand, then reached for Brianne’s, raised it, and pressed warm lips to her cool skin. “I’m charmed to meet you, although, I must tell you, I feel I already know you.”

  A dull flush seeped slowly up Brianne’s neck, reaching her face and tinging the flawless texture of her skin a darker-than-usual shade of peach. This Sloan Lassiter was definitely a bastard, she decided. She had been raised among hard-living cowboys and vaqueros. They might not have the courtly manners and expensive clothes this man did, but they’d never be so ungentlemanly as to refer to an episode such as this afternoon’s. Especially not in front of her brother!

  Well, she was perfectly capable of handling a bastard like this one. She jerked her hand out of Sloan’s grip, resolving not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. “Really?” she murmured coolly and with a touch of challenge. “I have no idea why you would think that.”

  He smiled, taking in the high square-necked rose silk dress, with its bustle visible as she sat slightly forward in the straight-back chair. She had twisted her red hair into a very proper chignon at the back of her head. All in all, she looked quite elegant. Yet it seemed that no matter what state he saw her in, clothed or unclothed, he still wanted her. “I feel I know you because I was privileged to witness your remarkable exhibition of riding skill earlier today.”

  Despite her bluff, a feeling of relief washed over Brianne as she realized he wasn’t going to bring up the scene in the bathroom. “In the corral? I didn't see you.”

  “I watched from the window of my room. It faces the corral.”

  Patrick laughed. “Someone else saw you fall, Brianne. That’s good. Now I have a witness.” He turned to Sloan. “Would you like to join us?”

  Before Brianne could think of an objection, he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thank you. A few minutes of company would be nice. Traveling can be very lonely.”

  Brianne leveled a cool green-eyed look at him. “I can’t imagine you getting lonely, Mr. Lassiter. You seem to have a unique way of meeting people.” His answer to her was a slow smile, and her reply was an unwanted thrill of heat shooting through her body. Damn the man!

  “Fetching bonnet, Miss Delaney.”

  Mortified as she suddenly remembered the outrageous hat she had plopped on her head in fun, she jerked it off and glared at him.

  With a puzzled glance at his sister, Patrick intervened. “My sister and I are on our way to St. Louis to visit relatives. My horse threw a shoe just outside town yesterday afternoon, so we decided to rest up here while we got him shod.”

  Sloan's calculating gaze went from Patrick to Brianne and back to Patrick. “So you’ll be leaving in the morning?”

  Patrick nodded. “Weather permitting. You said you were from New York City? What line of business are you in?”

  “I’m involved in various enterprises” – he shrugged as if his business were of no account – “shipping, banking, investments.”

  “That’s interesting, and where are you headed?”

  Sloan leaned back in his chair. “I think I may stay here for a while. Rest, as you say.”

  Brianne studied Sloan while he and her brother talked. Even if she hadn't just learned that he was a financier, she still wouldn’t have thought him to be the type of man who traveled with no destination and no purpose in mind. His golden eyes periodically scanned back and forth between the two doorways of the dining room, almost as if he were afraid of a knife in the back. Yet every time his gaze came back to her, it held something close to intent, giving her the uncanny impression that she was the subject very much on his mind.

  Young George brought a pitcher of water to the table and began to refill their glasses. Sloan’s attention narrowed on him to such an intense degree that Brianne’s curiosity was aroused. She turned to study George, trying to figure out what had drawn Sloan’s interest, but all she could see was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen, too thin, and with fair hair and blue eyes.

  Just then George tripped, and water was sent flying all over Sloan.

  Mrs. Potter was beside them in an instant, wringing her hands and hovering over Sloan. “Oh, I’m so sorry! That boy is so clumsy! I never should have hired him!”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Potter,” Sloan said calmly, brushing the moisture from his fine suit coat.

  “No, it’s not!” She swung around and raised her hand, intending to deliver George a stinging slap.

  Brianne’s “Don’t do that!” died in her throat, because as swift as a striking snake and with as much menace, Sloan was on his feet and had Mrs. Potter’s hand imprisoned in his.

  “That’s not at all necessary,” he said, his voice quiet and gentle, his eyes cold and deadly.

  “You don’t understand,” Mrs. Potter sputtered. “He gives me nothing but trouble. He’s turning out just like that drunken bum of a father of his. He – ”

  “Mrs. Potter, I will take it very badly if you do anything to punish this boy… or even think of dismissing him. This incident was entirely my fault.”

  “Your – ”

  “My fault.” He released her wrist, dipped his hand into his pocket, brought out a handful of coins, and gave them to the obviously distraught boy. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt you. Understand?”

  Stunned, George nodded.

  “Oh … well, all right then.” Mrs. Potter ran an eye over Sloan’s suit and decided the damage wasn’t too bad. And Mr. Lassiter was an obviously affluent guest, after all. It was always wise to keep the paying customers happy. “Come along, George.”

  As if nothing had happened, Sloan turned to Patrick. “I was on my way over to Lucky’s Saloon for a game or two of poker. Would you care to join me?”

  “Sounds good. Brianne, would you mind?”

  It took Brianne a moment to recover. Sloan’s defense of George had definitely surprised her. Not that he hadn’t been right in protecting the boy. It was just that she hadn’t expected him to do such a nice thing.

  “No, of course I don’t mind.” She wrinkled her nose affectionately at her brother. “You do seem to be on a winning streak. Win lots of money and don’t worry about me. I’ll see you in the morning.�
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  Sloan nodded to Patrick. “Then I’ll see you later.” To Brianne he said, “It’s been most … memorable.” Brianne turned her head to watch Sloan as he strolled out of the room. So now she knew his name, she thought, and even where he was from. But she still didn't know why he had kissed her. Or why she had responded.

  She held her breath until she was sure he had left the dining room, then let it out in a long, loud sigh.

  Patrick gazed at her thoughtfully. “What’s up, Bri?”

  “I don’t like Sloan Lassiter,” she said flatly and picked up her glass of water to take a deep drink.

  Patrick was well aware of the sparks that had jumped between her and Sloan Lassiter. In fact, he hadn’t seen that many sparks since the time he had set off firecrackers in Hell’s Bluff. It was too bad they had to leave tomorrow. It might be interesting to see what developed between his beautiful sister and the smooth but guarded man named Lassiter.

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “I’m not sure. He looks like a sophisticated city man, but there’s something wrong there.” She shrugged and absently rubbed her left forearm. “I don’t know. His eyes remind me of something or someone, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe it’s that bounty hunter who came looking for Dom that time. Remember?”

  Brianne nodded slowly. “I remember. He was carried off Killara in a pine box.”

  “That’s right. And it’s my opinion that Mr. Lassiter is looking for someone, just like that bounty hunter was.”

  The golden flames dancing at the tips of the candles seemed to beckon with their hypnotic motion. She tore her gaze away. “All I can say is that there's something terribly unnerving about Sloan Lassiter. He appears very polite on the surface, but I’m willing to bet that if you scratched that civilized skin of his, you'd find something very dark and dangerous.”

  “Dark and dangerous, huh?” Patrick studied his sister for a moment. “Then my advice to you, Brianne, is don’t scratch him.”

  It had been a while since there had been any thunder, but Sloan could hear the rain as it beat against the wood roof of the Lucky Saloon. He narrowed his eyes against the smoke, noticing that the place was almost full. All night he had been keeping track of the comings and goings in the saloon, studying faces, wondering if any of them worked for Wes.

  Lucky, the beefy, gray-haired owner, was wiping down the long bar that dominated one side of the room. The back of Lucky's head was reflected in the tall, wide mirror hanging behind the bar. From where Sloan was sitting, he could see that the mirror boasted several bullet holes with accompanying cracks. An upright piano with a tasseled bench was against another wall, but no one was playing it. In the back, a stairway led to a balcony, off of which several rooms opened.

  With effort Sloan returned his gaze to his cards, wishing he were more interested in the game. He had hoped a night playing poker might prove diverting, but so far his mind was refusing to stay focused on any one thing. Abruptly he folded the cards shut and tossed them onto the table. “I’m out.”

  On his left, Maxwell Tucker, a corpulent man with broken blood vessels covering his pudgy face, did the same, grumbling, “Bad night, bad cards. I don’t like it. All this rain. Nothin’s going right.”

  The man on Tucker’s left was Isaiah Carter. An older man, he was a rancher who had come into town on business and been forced to stay the night because of the heavy rain. He glanced at Tucker. “No sense blamin' it on the night, son. Cards fall where they like. It’s how we play them that matters.”

  The man sitting on Sloan’s right, Lee Reardon, merely smiled and, after a look at Patrick Delaney, tossed more money into the pot. Sloan had sized up Reardon as a professional gambler from first glance. A handsome man, Reardon had long slender fingers that Sloan knew would be capable of expertly stacking a deck or covertly dealing off the bottom. But Sloan had watched him carefully, and tonight, at least, Reardon was playing a fair game.

  Across the table Patrick lay down a full house and cheerfully raked the pile of money toward him. “Sorry, gents, but this one’s mine.”

  “Another glass of whiskey!” Tucker hollered over his shoulder and settled down with a glum look on his face.

  While Reardon shuffled, Sloan studied Patrick Delaney. He played with cool expertise, yet without any sign of need or greed to win. Katy, one of the saloon girls and a pretty dishwater-blonde, was draping a pale slender arm around his shoulder. Patrick idly stroked her arm as he scanned the new cards Reardon had dealt him.

  Sloan’s attention switched to Katy. She was wearing a red taffeta dress trimmed with lace. If the dress had been made of silk and the trim had included pearls, it would have fit the description of the dress Brianne had given to her brother as she had ridden around the corral, her arms outstretched, her bare feet balancing on the rump of her horse.

  Sloan was having no trouble keeping track of the conversation and the card game, so he let himself envision Brianne in a red silk dress. Her brother had teased her about wearing red, but Sloan decided that a dark, warm shade of it would do wonderful things for her skin and hair.

  Katy’s dress was deliberately cut low. From the brief glance Sloan had gotten of Brianne’s naked body, he knew her breasts would more than fill the bodice of the dress the saloon girl wore. He glanced down at his right hand and wondered if his hand could completely encompass one of her breasts or would his hand be too small. The craving that thought engendered aroused him.

  A girl named Janice had attached herself to Sloan for the evening. She had black hair and was wearing a cheap pink satin dress. He felt her long cool fingers slide through his hair. She had one foot resting on the bottom rung of his chair, and she was leaning into him so that her breast was level with the side of his face. If he turned his head, he would be able to fasten his mouth onto the tip of her breast and entertain himself while the cards were being dealt. Even with the two of them surrounded by a room full of people as they were, Sloan was willing to wager that Janice wouldn’t object. He had known plenty of Janice’s type. Whether they were saloon girls or the highest members of New York City society, they pleasured men for money – the amounts just differed, that was all.

  His mind shifted back to Brianne Delaney, traveling under the protection of her brother, on her way to visit relatives. It was too damned bad the situation was so obviously proper.

  Annoyed because he couldn’t seem to get the redheaded Brianne out of his mind, he decided to avail himself of Janice. He reached his arm around her, pulled her into a more convenient position against him, and closed his mouth over one of her satin-covered nipples. As he strongly sucked, he heard Janice moan. Ah, yes. Janice would be very good tonight. She would know all the right moves, know all the right things to say.

  But slowly the heat he had begun to feel as he had thought of Brianne in Katy’s dress began to cool. Bloody sweet hell! he thought, and pushed Janice away. Just the sound of Brianne’s laughter this afternoon had created more desire than the feel of this willing woman's breast in his mouth.

  “Can I bring you a drink?” Janice asked softly.

  “No.” He glanced at the uncertain expression on her face and added, “I’m not drinking.”

  “Can’t trust a man who doesn’t drink,” Tucker grumbled.

  “On the other hand,” Carter said, “it’s my opinion that you can’t trust one who drinks too much.”

  Ignoring the comments of both men, Sloan raked his fingers through his dark hair and decided that he knew where to lay the blame for his lack of interest in Janice. Wes McCord. Not knowing exactly when Wes would be back in town was frustrating as hell to him. And a woman or a game of cards wasn’t going to alleviate that frustration.

  His gaze shifted around the bar and stopped at the three men he had seen arrive a few minutes before. One was taller than the other two and slim with a saturnine expression. The other two were of medium height and stocky. All three stood at the bar, their muddy boots resting on
the brass railing, their bodies leaning sideways against the bar as they drank and eyed the action.

  “Playin’, Lassiter?” Patrick Delaney asked, holding up a freshly shuffled deck of cards.

  “Deal,” he said, not caring what impression he was making. Janice had sidled back to his side and had placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. With barely a thought he reached up to pat it.

  Patrick began distributing the cards to each man around the table with a smooth, quick action of his wrist. “You know, I was always taught the way to win at cards was to concentrate on the game.” His drawl was laced with humor.

  Sloan picked up his cards one by one as they were dealt to him. “You were taught well.”

  “Hell, I’ll say!” Tucker's words came out in a snort. “Once those cards get in your hand, they just sort of seem to turn the right color and get the right number of spots.”

  As though to counteract the ugly tone in Tucker's voice, Reardon’s tone was deliberately cheerful. “So where were you brought up, Delaney? A riverboat on the Mississippi?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Sloan noticed that, oddly, the three newcomers at the bar stiffened when they heard the name Delaney. A whispered flurry of what looked like debate followed, and then the tall man snatched up his raingear and strode out of the bar. The two men that remained kept their gazes rigidly trained on Patrick Delaney.

  Patrick was idly playing with Katy’s fingertips. “Nope. A ranch in Arizona.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a gamblin' place to me.”

  A good-natured grin creased Patrick’s face. “I can tell you've never met any members of my family.”

  “Wouldn’t want to if they play like you do, Delaney!”

  Everyone at the table suddenly went very still.

  Katy backed slowly away.

  Patrick casually dropped his right hand to his hip, where his gun reposed in its holster. His brown-eyed gaze rested quite pleasantly on Tucker. “You’re not by any chance saying that I’m cheating, are you?”

  Tucker licked his lips and didn’t answer, but Isaiah Carter attempted a jovial laugh. “Of course he’s not. No one is. I’ve never sat at a fairer table.”