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In the next second, she was flying out of the saloon and into the street, oblivious to the shouts of the men who watched her. It took only a moment to reach the hotel. She flung open the doors and hurried into the lobby.

  Her arrival was so sudden, she failed to see that the man she sought was standing only a few feet in front of the doors. She ran smack into him.

  It was like hitting a tree trunk. As she staggered backward, her shoulder upset a small wall shelf of porcelain figurines. The fragile knickknacks crashed to the polished wooden floor.

  “What the hell—” The hotel owner pounded his fist on the registration desk. “Look what you—”

  “Oh, heavens!” his wife exclaimed. “Look what you did!”

  “I didn’t mean to!” Russia yelled. Spit and spice, what on earth was she going to do now? She had not a penny to her name, and knew the irate man and his wife were going to demand payment for the smashed figurines.

  “Do you have any idea how much those sit-arounds cost?” the man screamed.

  His wife hurried to pick up a few shards of her ruined possessions. “My treasures! I brought them all the way from Virginia, and now they’re ruined. I’m going to die! I’m just going to die!”

  “We certainly don’t want your wife to die, do we, senor?” A cheroot clenched between his teeth, Santiago threw a roll of bills at the angry man, then stared down at the distraught woman. “Buy more treasures.” Without another word, he turned and walked toward the stairway that led to the rooms upstairs, his dagger bouncing against his calf.

  Russia followed.

  “And just where do you think you’re going, might I ask?” the hotel owner’s wife demanded. “We don’t allow your kind in here! Get out!”

  Russia turned and glared at her. “My kind?”

  The woman lifted her head high. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  Russia did, indeed, know what the snobbish woman meant, but she wasn’t about to ignore the cruel remark. “Lady, your nose is so damn upturned, I reckon when you sneeze you blow your hat off. Jist where the hell do you git off tellin’ me I ain’t allowed in here? I got business with that Zamora feller.”

  “Precisely my point!” the woman snapped. “My husband and I run a respectable establishment, and we’ll not have you doing that kind of business in our hotel!”

  At the renewed shouting, Santiago sauntered back into the lobby. “The girl is here at my invitation. I trust you don’t have a problem with my taking her to my room?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “But she’s a…a—”

  “I’m fully aware of what she is.”

  The hotel owner drew himself up to his full height, his head reaching Santiago’s chest. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Zamora, but my wife is right. We cannot allow—”

  “I advise you to rethink your decision, senor.”

  The man began to sweat, unable to decide what was more frightening—the gunslinger’s fathomless black eyes, his flashing Colts, or the almost tangible sense of danger that radiated from him.

  Santiago turned from the withering man and faced the girl who’d caused the uproar. “What is your name?”

  Though he asked the question softly, Russia nearly jumped out of her gown. His voice didn’t match his menacing aura at all. It was so smooth. It made her think of deep brown velvet. “My name?”

  “You do have one, don’t you?”

  Clutching handfuls of her dress, she nodded.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I— Um…” Her mind went blank. “My name’s— It’s…”

  With one finger, Santiago pushed the rim of his hat off his forehead. “Don’t you know your own name?”

  “I— ’Course I know my own name. It’s jist that—well, I believe in real long introducements, and I’m draggin’ this one out so it’ll be longer.”

  “Introductions,” he corrected her.

  “Whatever.” Good Lord, she thought. Why did the sight of him erase the memory of her own name! “It’s—Russia Valentine! Yeah, that’s me, Russia Valentine!”

  Scowling, he took her hand. Ignoring the speechless hotel owner and his wife, he led her to the stairs. “As you said, Russia Valentine. We have business. Let’s attend to it.”

  She decided she had no reason to fear him. After all, she wasn’t a criminal, so he wasn’t dangerous to her. That worry taken care of, she began to ascend the stairs, tripping several times. Each time she stumbled, he increased the pressure on her hand until he was holding it so firmly her fingers began to ache. She winced with both pain and the thought of his strength. “Typhus and tits, Zamora, you’re about to break my damn hand! Lemme go!” When he complied, she shook her throbbing hand and took a step backward, gasping when her foot met thin air instead of solid stairs.

  Santiago grabbed her by the waist and hauled her next to his own body. “Have you ever gotten through a single day without an accident? You don’t fall out of bed, do you?”

  “Bed?” She skipped a breath. The feeling of his hard torso against her breasts caused an unfamiliar tingle to course through her again.

  “Bed. It’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again.

  Her actions sent a spicy scent drifting around him. The fragrance brought him a vague memory. “What’s that smell?”

  She sniffed the air. “I don’t smell nothin’.”

  The scent meant something to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. “Candy,” he muttered. “Do you smell candy?”

  “Candy? Oh. That’s peppermint.”

  Peppermint. A rush of bittersweet nostalgia hit him, the scent recalling a time in his life he hadn’t thought of in ages.

  The taffy. The peppermint taffy. The years fell away. He was six; his sister, Lupita, was fifteen. He held one end of the stringy taffy, and Lupita held the other. Together, they pulled it, but never long enough. Laughing over their impatience, they ate it before it was ready.

  Peppermint taffy. The memory, the pungent scent, made him ache with longing, sorrow, and regret.

  “I’m wearin’ it,” Russia explained. “Peppermint oil.”

  Her voice hurled him back into the present. “Wearing it? Why?”

  “Because I like it! Is that all right with you?”

  At her shouting, his eyes widened. Santa Maria, she was a saucy wench! And a brave one, too! No woman, no man, had ever dared raise a voice at him. “I’ve had enough of this chitchat on the stairway, woman.” Lifting her into his arms, he carried her the rest of the way up the steps and down the hall. When he reached the door of his room, one firm kick sent it flying open. Another shut it.

  He set Russia down. Sweeping past her, he flung his hat across the room.

  She watched it land neatly on the prong of a brass hatstand, then brought her attention back to him. Her eyes widened.

  The man was undressing! “You— Are you gonna git plumb nelly nekkid?”

  His hands stilled on the fastening of his breeches. Looking sideways at her, he saw the crimson stain on her cheeks. Confusion stung him. “I’ve always done this without clothes. How do you do it?”

  She couldn’t answer; she could only stare. He’d removed his bullet straps and shirt. His smooth brown chest gleamed in the dim lamplight. It rippled up and down with each breath he took, and she felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run her hands across its muscled expanse. The thought both embarrassed and excited her. Noodles and green fly wings, what did the man do to her?

  Pulling off his boots and socks, Santiago frowned when he saw her look of dismay. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  His gruff question startled her so badly that she bit her tongue. The pain dispelled desire. Touching her finger to her tongue, she looked at it and saw a smear of blood. “God! Oh, God, I’m bleedin’!”

  Santiago stared at her in complete bewilderment as her blushing cheeks whitened. When she began to sway and her head lolled backward, he charged toward her and caught h
er just as she started to crumple to the floor. “Santa Maria, are you fainting?”

  “Blood,” she whispered, her eyes rolling. “It makes me sick. So sick I feel like throwin’ up my socks.”

  Muttering Spanish profanities, he took her to a plump settee and tossed her onto it. Irritated, he debated whether to throw her out of his room with a warning to never set foot close to him again.

  But as he watched the color return to her cheeks, he studied her delicate features. Though she wore a bit of paint, her beauty wasn’t masked by it. There was a wholesome look about her, one that belied what he knew her to be. She even had little-girl freckles across the bridge of her nose! How could a whore be wholesome? he asked himself. No strumpet he’d ever seen presented the kind of freshness this one did.

  His eyes mere slits, he glared down at her. Freckles or no freckles, she was a harlot.

  He hated her and all her kind.

  “’Course I didn’t eat no socks,” Russia told him suddenly.

  “What?”

  “I cain’t really and truly throw up my socks on account o’ I didn’t eat none. This is all your fault, y’know.”

  His bitter thoughts were so intense, it was a moment before her statement registered. “What? What’s my fault?”

  “If you hadn’t yelled at me the way you done, I wouldn’t have bited my tongue plumb nelly in half. If I hadn’t bited my tongue in half, I wouldn’t have bleeded, and if I hadn’t bleeded, I wouldn’t have got sick enough to throw up my socks even though I didn’t eat none.” She sat upright and put her feet on the floor, rotating her head around her shoulders.

  He watched her. “What are you doing?”

  “Testin’ to see if I’m still dizzy. What’s it to you?”

  “You look like a damn turtle.”

  She glowered at him. “Zamora, you’re about as nice as a snake with a abscessed fang. Whatcha got against turtles anyway?”

  He decided her stupid question wasn’t worth answering. Confident that she’d recovered from her swoon, he strode to the bed and lay down, waiting for her to begin. When she remained on the sofa, his anger returned. “Look,” he said from between clenched teeth, “I’m going to ask you three questions, and I want answers.” He took a second to calm himself. “Have you ever seen a naked man before?” he asked very softly.

  She couldn’t seem to find her voice. After looking away from him, she managed a weak “Yes.” To reinforce her answer, she nodded vigorously, then let out a small shriek when her flower headband fell to her nose.

  Santiago allowed her to adjust it before gently asking his second question. “Have you ever been bedded?”

  Though the temptation was enormous, she refused to look at him, knowing that if she did she wouldn’t be able to talk. “Yes.”

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for?” he thundered.

  Gathering the remains of what courage she had left, she stood and forced herself to look at him, making sure her gaze remained on his face and not on his dark, bare chest. “I need you to find a man fer me, Zamora.”

  “You’ve got one, Valentine. Me.”

  As if it were made of fire, his meaning set her ablaze with a strange heat she’d never once felt before.

  “Take off your clothes, Russia.”

  She gasped. “Pissin’ pineapples, Zamora, I didn’t come up here fer that!”

  He didn’t know whether to comment on her ridiculous expression or the fact that she had no intention of getting into bed with him. “Pissing pineapples?”

  She ignored the taunting look on his face. Instead, she stared at his hair. In long raven waves, it lay spread out on his white pillow. The thought of sliding her fingers through it brought those peculiar feelings back to her again.

  “Russia,” he prompted.

  “What?” She stared at him blankly before remembering what she’d been saying. “I come up here,” she began, chancing a quick glance at his powerful body, then wishing she hadn’t. Lord, the man had muscles in places she never knew they grew! “Um…I come up here to—to talk to you. I need you to find Wirt.”

  “Wirt? What’s a wirt?”

  She twisted one of her long curls around her hand so thoroughly it took her almost a minute to get her fingers free. “Wirt ain’t a ‘it,’ he’s a ‘he.’ Wirt Avery. The bastard’s been follerin’ me since the Dead Sea was only sick. I hear you’re the best tracker in the country, and I want you to git him.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow, allowing his gaze to travel down the length of her slender body. “You can’t afford me.”

  His statement erased her excitement at the thought of hiring him. He was right. She was penniless. Her chin dropped to her chest; she watched her breasts rise and fall with her breaths. The sight gave her a solution to her problem. As she dwelled on it, an odd but sweet ache began deep inside her.

  “I cain’t pay you them thousands o’ dollars you’re used to gittin’,” she told him, raising her head, “but I’ll give you my— I’ll offer you my…”

  When her voice trailed away, Santiago lifted a brow. “You’ll offer me your what, Russia?”

  She saw the ascent of his sable brow. The varmint knew damn well what she was offering him, yet he was going to make her say it!

  And why couldn’t she say it? she wondered suddenly. What on earth was the matter with her? Ever since she’d first laid eyes on Santiago Zamora, she’d felt like an inexperienced maiden.

  The thought irritated her. To hell with all those mysterious feelings he made her feel. She wasn’t an inexperienced maiden, and she’d prove it to him! Adopting her most sultry expression, one she had practiced for hours in front of a mirror, she looked directly into his eyes, her fingers lightly caressing the swell of one breast.

  “My body, Zamora,” she answered silkily, smoothing her tongue across her lip. “I’ll be completely yours till you find Wirt. Night after night, I’ll lie in your arms, lettin’ you do whatever you want to me.” To add to her sensual offer, she slid her leg out the slit in her skirt.

  Santiago had no intention of tracking down the character called Wirt Avery. Nor did he care for the thought of Russia lying in his arms night after night. The girl was dangerous. As clumsy as she was, he’d be safer sleeping with a stick of lit dynamite.

  Still, he mused, his eyes drawn to the curves of her long leg, he wanted her at least once. Maybe twice. He decided to lead her on. “If you prove your…uh, talents to be exceptional, I’ll consider your offer. Until then, you’re on your own with Avery.”

  At his proposition, heat engulfed her again. She began to fan herself with her hand. “Rotten rubies and religious roaches, it’s hot in here. Can we open the window, please?”

  “I want you hot, Russia.”

  His declaration nearly rendered her senseless with that unfamiliar yearning he’d already evoked several times. Struggling to ignore it, she walked toward the bed, all the while wondering if she had it in her to satisfy him. She reminded herself that she knew all the tricks to please a man, but her heart told her that Santiago wasn’t a man who would simply lie back and let her perform. He would master their lovemaking. She felt her self-confidence fade.

  Fighting back nervousness, she failed to see the small chair near the bed. She caught her foot on it, then watched as it toppled onto the bedside table. The table wobbled precariously, sending Santiago’s guns and knife to the floor. Stunned over what she’d done, she stared at the weapons helplessly, sure he would now use one of them on her.

  He cursed again, then got out of bed to pick them up. Realizing she should help him, Russia bent at the same moment and accidentally bumped heads with him.

  Santiago let out a yelp and fell sideways. His shoulder met the wall with such force, a heavy painting dropped off and landed right on top of his bare foot. In pain, he slid to the floor. “Santa Maria, alejate de mi!”

  His Spanish confused her. “What?”

  “Alejate de mi!”

  His look of fury made her
just as angry as he was. Quickly, she snatched up both his guns. They were heavy and wavered in her hands, but she managed to point them at him. “If what you jist said to me weren’t somethin’ real bad, I might fergive you. But if it was some sorta threat, I’ll shoot your fool head off. Now, what did that Spanish tongue o’ yours say? Be honest, Zamora.”

  He stared at her, completely unable to believe what he was seeing or hearing. “You’re pointing two guns at me.”

  She glanced at the weapons she held. “Well, slap me nekkid and hide my clothes, is that what I’m doin’?”

  Santa Maria, he thought, she was the bravest person he’d ever met! That, or she was totally insane!

  “Did you threaten me, Zamora? Jist who do you think you are, anyway? I ain’t no criminal, and I—”

  “I didn’t threaten you! I told you to get the hell away from me!” He yanked his pistols away from her, laid them back on the table, and began to rub his bruised foot.

  Russia watched him, feeling rather guilty over having accidentally hurt him. “Well, since you didn’t threaten me or nothin’, I’m mucho sorry-o about your foot. That’s a Spanish apology, y’know. Here, lemme help you.” She grabbed his foot and held it to her chest as she massaged it.

  Santiago started to pull it away. But as he began to do just that, he noticed she was holding it cradled between her lush breasts. His blood heated. With a low growl, he reached for her shoulders and pulled her down to him, settling her in his lap.

  Russia found herself face-to-face with him, their noses almost touching. He smelled like leather. Like cold steel and hot sun. Arrested by the bottomless depths of his black eyes, she could find neither the strength nor the inclination to pull her gaze away from them.

  Her legs straddled his hips, her breasts cushioning her against his hard, naked chest. Through the fabric of his breeches, his manhood pushed against her belly. It felt like solid fire, and she was sure that if she looked down, she’d see flames licking at her.

  She felt fear. Desire. Confusion. She was afraid of whatever unknown fulfillment it was her body wanted from him. “Lemme git up.”

  “No.” He had her exactly where he wanted her and wasn’t about to prolong his need any longer. “You’ve yet to show me your worth. Prove it to me now, Russia.”