California Caress Page 12

  Now that he was sitting, and no longer an immediate threat, Hope felt secure enough in shifting her weight until she was sitting on the hard, cold floor. Her aching calves sighed in relief. “They won’t convict me,” she replied with a shrug, surprised at the confidence that rang clear in her voice. “Not when I tell them I shot you in self-defense. After all, a girl does have to defend her honor. Especially in a place like this.”

  A throaty chuckle rumbled in Drake’s chest, a humor that was not reflected in the eyes that never left her. “Is that what you’re going to tell them? That I tried to steal your virtue? Not very original, sunshine. I’d have thought you’d come up with something a little more dramatic.”

  Again, she shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be original, or dramatic, just good enough so it sounds like the truth.” Her thumb rubbed the cold band of metal that separated the sides of the pistol’s carved ivory handle. “They’ll believe it. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “You will be, if shooting me’s what you decide to do.” His gaze shifted to her mouth and Hope felt a sudden warmth there. It was as if he’d run his index finger over the smooth flesh, not just his gaze. “Are you willing to take that chance?” Drake asked, his voice softly probing. “Are the consequences really that bad?”

  “If you’d just leave peacefully there wouldn’t be any consequences,” she spat, resting her forearms on drawn-up knees. She was careful to never let the barrel of the gun waver, a sign of weakness that this man would be quick to take full advantage of.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” she fairly screamed. “Don’t force me to shoot you, Frazier. I will if I have to, we both know it, but I don’t think it’s what either of us wants.”

  Drake fingered the jagged cut on his cheek, then let his thumb trail over the blush swelling on his stubbly jaw. The look he sent her was one of unconcealed desire and determination. “I know what I want,” he replied slowly, poignantly. “And I think I know what you want, too.”

  “How convenient. Is there anything you don’t know?” she quipped sarcastically, rearranging her position so the open buttons of her dress didn’t cut into her back quite so sharply.

  “As a matter of fact...” Drake’s voice trailed away and he sent her that arrogantly confident smile again, the one Hope would gladly have shot right off his face. “I haven’t quite figured out why you’re fighting me so hard. Why would you offer me compensation you had no intention of giving? And why won’t you give it?” He shrugged. “Can’t figure that one out. I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Of course, there’s always the chance—” his brow furrowed into a scowl. “You’re not married, are you?”

  He would have heard if she was, Drake told himself. In Thirsty Gulch, there wasn’t too much about a person that one didn’t hear about. The husband of a girl in her marital prime, especially a girl who was as attractive as this one, couldn’t be kept a secret, now could it? Hope Bennett had a sour disposition. So long as she kept the bed warm and the meals on the table, mended the shirts and took care of the menial tasks, she could have any disposition she wanted to.

  With such thoughts answering his own questions, Drake wasn’t surprised to see Hope shake her head with almost laughable disbelief. Her thoughts must have traveled the same path.

  “Hmmm,” Drake sighed thoughtfully. His frown deepened as he rubbed a palm down his jaw. “Guess that brings us to question number two, sunshine. Why aren’t you married?”

  Drake thought he must have hit a sore spot, for Hope flinched as though she had been slapped across the face, before carefully schooling her features back to rigid self-composure. When did she pull away from me? He found himself wondering. Not when I kissed her. No, she returned that affection quite nicely, thank you very much. But the buttons on her dress—

  “That’s none of your business,” she hissed, her brown eyes narrow and glistening bright with indignation. He was hitting too close to home, she thought with a sense of panic. Much too close to home. “And stop calling me that. Why do you keep calling me that?”

  Drake smiled, but his gaze remained thoughtful. “Oh, I don’t know. Your winning disposition, I suppose,” he replied flippantly, adding a sarcastic chuckle.

  “Don’t toy with me, Frazier,” Hope warned, her voice low and angry as she gestured toward his chest with the gun. “I don’t enjoy being played with any more than I like being made to look a fool.”

  “And I don’t like being held at the receiving end of a pistol,” he countered, just as hotly. His eyes narrowed to angry, sea-green slits. “Guess that makes us just about even, sunshine.”

  Holding her anger in check was not something Hope had much practice at, or much use for. And now, she didn’t even try. Sneering, she jutted her chin at the door. “If you don’t like the company, feel free to leave. Nobody’s stopping you. God knows, I’m not using this thing to keep you here.”

  Drake shook his head as though she had just offered him a cup of coffee, and he’d politely declined it. “Nah,” he said, sliding a little lower in the bench. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’d rather wait around until you’re ready to pay me.” A derisive smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Or shoot me. Whichever comes first.”

  “Then make yourself comfortable, gunslinger, because I’m not going to shoot you unless you ask for it.” There was no need to elaborate. The look on Frazier’s face said he’d drawn the right conclusion.

  Drake sent Hope a quick look from the corner of his eyes as he pretended to turn his attention back to the fire. His calculating gaze assessed the dark shadows etched beneath the lower lashes and the drooping of her eyelids. He watched as she stifled a yawn with the back of her hand, thinking he hadn’t seen. The barrel of the gun dipped until it was pointed at a place somewhere between his ankle and his calf. Her guard had lowered, if only momentarily.

  The time to move was here, and Drake seized it with every ounce of energy he possessed. It took barely a second for his muscles to tighten from lazy relaxation to rigid awareness.

  Hope was alert at once, the yawn caught in her throat as she trained the gun on his sculpted profile. Except for a slight change in position he seemed to have totally dismissed her. His gaze was still trained on the dying flames in the hearth. Odd, but his eyes seemed more alert now, more purposeful. His arms were no longer crossed atop his chest. Instead, his hands were cushioned there, the fingers apparently relaxed and linked atop the tight stomach. His ankles were no longer crossed either. Now his feet were spread apart, both boots firmly planted on the floor.

  Recognition dawned a split second too late. By the time Hope realized what Frazier was about to do, he had lithely uncoiled from his lazy pose and hurled himself at her, full force.

  Hope had barely enough time to swallow a gasp before the weight of his body came smashing down on top of her. Air rushed from her lungs at the same time the bullet left the gun with an earsplitting explosion. The bone-jarring impact of his body prevented any aim she might have taken, and the shot went harmlessly high and wide. The bullet lodged in one of the beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, splintering the wood with a crackling sound that might have been made by a log on the fire, or by the snapping of her ribs.

  A hand snaked out of nowhere, closing around her wrist in a viselike grip that made the blood, trapped in the fingers coiled around the gun throb with each frantic beat of her heart. Hope tried to move her thumb, tried to make it reach the cold metal hammer that would buy her another shot. Her hand wouldn’t respond. It took all of her strength, and most of her self-control, just to keep hold of the carved ivory handle.

  Frazier must have sensed her intent. His grip tightened by painful degrees until she was convinced the bones in her arm would snap from the pressure. He shifted his weight enough to allow her air, and Hope took deeps gulps of it. She watched, horrified, while her unresponsive fingers drained from the pale white to ice cold blue. One by one t
hey uncurled from the handle like the petals of a blossoming rosebud, until the pistol lay nestled in the darkening flesh of her palm.

  In one fluid motion, Drake released her hand and snatched up the weapon. With an angry growl, he flung it to the other side of the room. It smashed into the wall, scarring the unstained wood, before clattering harmlessly to the floor.

  Her hand tingled with pain, and Hope gasped as her circulation returned. She managed to lift her hand an inch off the floor, but it promptly fell back. Though she would have loved nothing better than to smack that look of arrogant self-satisfaction off Drake Frazier’s face, that chore would have to wait. Her other hand was pinned helplessly between their chests, and it would probably be quite a while before Frazier trusted her enough to free it.

  “What are you going to do now, gunslinger? Force me?” Hope taunted breathlessly. Her voice was filled with loathing as she tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. The large, slanted brown eyes sparkled with anger, and there wasn’t a trace of defeat to be found in her hard, square features.

  “Maybe,” he replied, his voice a husky whisper. His gaze dropped to her softly parted lips and Hope’s breath caught as she felt his warm breath wash over her cheeks and neck. “Maybe not.” He nodded over his shoulder. “That thing have any more bullets in it?”

  Her lips curled into a sly grin and her eyes narrowed in challenge. “Go check.”

  “Ha! Not a chance. I’m comfortable right where I am.”

  “That makes one of us,” Hope muttered. She squirmed, trying to free the hand caught between their bodies. The strength had finally returned to her other hand, and Hope balled it into a fist and pushed impatiently against his shoulder. It was like trying to move God. “Will you please get off me? I can’t breathe.”

  “Not until you tell me why you pulled a gun on me.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “I want the real reason, sunshine, not the ‘obvious’ one.”

  Hope flushed and lowered her gaze to his lips. Sensuous, enticingly molded lips. Hot color flooded her cheeks as she renewed her struggles. This time, as she pushed and strained against him, she noticed a spark of emotion flicker in those fathomless green eyes. Desire? Admiration? Disgust? What had it been? She didn’t know. It came and went so fast that, before she knew it, she was once again staring into a gaze that was hard and indecipherable.

  “Tell me, Hope,” Drake whispered. His prodding was so soft that, for an instant, Hope was tempted to tell him what he wanted to know.

  The same hand that, just moments before, had been ready to twist her arm into pieces, now tenderly brushed a sweat-dampened curl from her brow. At first she flinched from the touch, but his fingers were so warm, so exquisitely gentle, that she found herself relaxing against them. It was a mistake, she knew, but one that she had no control over. Her body was responding to his nearness with alarming speed, and the result was a breathless sense of anticipation that both confused and frightened her.

  “Drake,” Hope sighed, giving another feeble push at his shoulder. Odd, but his name tasted like nectar to her lips. Against her will, she found herself thoroughly enchanted. “Let me up,” she pleaded weakly.

  She had to get away from him, Hope realized suddenly. She had to get away from his spicy scent, his warm touch, his tender words. The combined attack on her senses was wreaking havoc, weakening her self-control with dismaying ease. Already she could feel her resolve fading. Another few minutes of this exquisite torture and her traitorous body would be melting against him, as it so badly wanted to do now. And if she let that happen, everything would be lost.

  “Let me up,” she cried suddenly. She pushed against him with all her might, as though by turning Frazier away she could also push her deepest, darkest fears back into the far closet of her mind where they belonged, under lock and key. “Let me up and then leave. Don’t... please, don’t make me—” her voice cracked as she swallowed a sob. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I WON’T CRY! she chanted to herself as a tear slipped down her cheek.

  Damn it! Hope turned her head away, praying that Frazier hadn’t seen. She should have known better. Those eagle eyes never missed a thing.

  Drake lifted her chin with the crook of his index finger and turned her to him. Her eyes, large and round, reminded him of a doe his grandfather had forced him to hunt and trap. Even then, he hadn’t been able to fire the bullet that would bring the deer down.

  And now? he wondered, as he peered into a pair of wide, innocent, velvet brown eyes, the pupils of which were encircled with a golden band to match the glistening flecks in the irises.

  He should have been able to pull the trigger without compunction. Past and present had combined to make Drake the hard, bitter shell of a man that he was, but still there was something about those innocent eyes that reminded him of the frightened doe. The reminder scratched painfully close to the tender feelings he’d buried long ago. He’d actually forgotten they existed.

  With a muffled curse, Drake threw himself from her as though her dress had just reached a degree past boiling.

  Hope felt a waft of cold air brush over her body as he pulled away. An inexplicable emptiness welled in the pit of her stomach, and confusion shimmered in her eyes as she sat up. She watched him run his fingers through his hair as he angrily stalked toward the gun. Wiping away the dampness of her cheek on the back of her hand, she tried to ignore her sudden panic.

  Is he going to shoot me? she wondered frantically. She pushed her back hard against the wall and tucked her knees as close to her chest as she could get them. And am I just going to sit here and let him do it without putting up a fight? Hell, no!

  Fueled by indignation, she pushed herself to her feet and staggered to the counter. She ached from the cramped position, from having borne the weight of Drake’s body on hers. Hope ignored her muscles’ scream of protest as her fingers wrapped around the knife’s wooden handle. Behind her echoed the familiar clicks of the pistol’s rolling cylinder.

  Hope spun on her heel. A frown wrinkled her brow as she watched Drake inspect the gun’s chambers curiously.

  “Hmph!” he snorted, snapping the metal loading gate shut. To her aggravation, he addressed her without bothering to turn her way as he tested the weight of the pistol. “The knife’s not going to do you much good, sunshine,” he said, with a devilish grin, as he twirled the gun on his index finger and let it slap neatly into his palm. “Or did you forget that there were five more shells in this beauty?”

  Hope stiffened, “I didn’t forget,” she lied. Actually, she’d had no way of knowing how many bullets Old Joe kept in the gun. “I figured I might need them all in case you tried anything nasty.”

  Drake shrugged. In two steps he reached the table, where he placed the pistol next to the pile of neatly stacked dishes. “Keep it then, if it makes you feel better, but you won’t be needing it. I’ve decided to—” he scowled, then sent her a cold grin, “postpone payment for the time being.”

  “Postpone?” Now what was he up to? Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him with open suspicion. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but why? What brought about this sudden change of heart? I thought you were anxious to get—um—paid.”

  “Don’t push it,” Drake warned, his voice hard, cold, and as devoid of emotion as his eyes. “Keep arguing and I just might change my mind. And you wouldn’t want me to do that, would you, sunshine?”

  “No!” she cried, much too quickly.

  Drake nodded, her sudden, frightened reaction again raising the question he held in the back of his mind. “That’s what I thought.”

  He sent Hope a long, hard look, then headed for the door. The cold night air rushed past him, scattering a few dried leaves on the floor. They rustled loudly as they skipped across the bare, flat planks.

  Drake stopped short, and for a second Hope feared he had changed his mind. Her heart did a crazy flip-flop in her chest, and her palms grew damp as she rubbed them briskly together. Whether the reaction was ca
used by fear or anticipation, she was never really sure.

  A sun-kissed hand reached out and plucked his hat from the rack. He settled the worn leather on top of his golden head. His voice, when it came, was so soft it might have been made by the wind; Hope knew better. “I’ll be back, sunshine. You can bet on it.”

  By the time he had closed the door behind his rugged back, Hope was leaning weakly against the table, trembling far more than the fragile leaves scattering the floor.

  Chapter 7

  Though he did not make it his sleeping quarters, Drake Frazier might as well have taken up permanent residence in the Bennett household. Everywhere Hope turned, Drake was there. If the tinny sound of his harmonica didn’t accompany her to bed, chuckles over the wondrous things he’d said during the day did. Everywhere she turned, she either met with his smiling green eyes or with the clinging, smoky scent of his infernal cheroots—an odor her father, atypically, abided without complaint. Even after he’d left their cabin for his hotel room, she could smell that pungent scent, and the aroma haunted her dreams.

  Except for Old Joe, everyone had taken to the gunslinger as though he was a part of the family. Essentially, she supposed, he was. Her alliance with Frazier had opened up a line of friendship between him and the others that even a sharply honed ax couldn’t break. Though her father remained cautious, even he had grown accustomed to seeing Drake’s eagle-sharp features over his supper plate. That the gunslinger didn’t work in the mine, yet unflinchingly drained a percentage of the take, seemed to matter only to Hope.

  Using the back of her arm, Hope wiped the sweat from her brow and looked down the pile of apple slices. Cut into perfect little wedges, they would soon be baking in a flaky crust for an after-dinner treat.

  She was molding the thin dough into a pie plate when Luke trudged through the door. A sparkling of rain moistened his crop of chestnut curls.

  “It’s startin’ to rain. Pa said we could call it a day.”