The Unlikely Groom. Wendy Douglas

      What do you think, you’ll be tempting God again if you aspire for too much? scoffed an inner voice that sounded entirely too mocking for his taste. And if the question came closer to the truth than Lucas found comfortable, he chose to pretend otherwise. He had other things with which to concern himself, things more important than this ridiculous tendency toward indulging his overdeveloped sense of self-pity.

      Right now, he should be concentrating on the Star and its needs.

      Business had been off tonight. Not necessarily bad, just…off. The atmosphere had been fractious and Lucas had broken up more than one argument that had run closer than usual to turning into a real fight. It might have been the cold that had set tempers on edge; the temperature had plummeted of late, typical enough for an Alaskan winter but trying for those unprepared for it. The brisk north wind in Skagway only made it seem worse.

      Or it might be something else entirely, like the latest outbreak of killings—one a day, some said. Lucas hadn’t kept track, but he had no trouble believing the number. Ever since Soapy Smith and his band of troublemakers had taken over the town six months ago, lawlessness had soared and mayhem had become the rule of the streets.

      “Here you go, sugar.”

      A husky voice interrupted his wandering thoughts and Lucas glanced around. Sugar Candy, as she was known among the men, swept up next to him. She carried with her the cloying scent of roses that he would recognize without ever having to see her. Tonight, she’d fixed her red-tinted hair into a cascade of curls that looked far too formal and proper to suit her formfitting green gown. The dress displayed with astonishing blatancy her full, ample curves and long, slender legs.

      Legs all the way to heaven. He remembered hearing one man describe her that way. Lucas allowed himself a small smile. He could appreciate the sentiment.

      “Thanks, Candy.” He took the glass and did his best to ignore the way she preened under his attention. Such a response always made him uncomfortable.

      He didn’t drink right away but instead set the glass on the table, next to the empty one. Candy didn’t move away.

      “You want some company to go with that?”

      He didn’t, not really. And yet he didn’t particularly want to sit here alone, either. He didn’t need the chance for his mind to wander back to those places and thoughts better left alone.

      “All right.” He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.”

      And so, he thought, he would pass the night—and his life—drinking expensive whiskey and wasting his time on a whore who meant nothing to him. It was exactly as he expected.

      Exactly as he deserved.

      And if he ever wished for something else?

      Lucas blinked and shook his head. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He knew better. He was lucky to have this much.

      He picked up the shot glass and drank.

      Ashlynne Mackenzie stepped into the saloon with no more fanfare than was necessary. Just the thought of where she was and what she was doing caused her to shiver. She managed to suppress it by sheer strength of will. She couldn’t afford the weakness or even the appearance of it.

      What was the name of this place? Ashlynne looked around but saw nothing in particular to distinguish this saloon from the others she’d been in tonight. It was loud and bright, cheerful in a frenetic sort of way, and a good deal warmer than the outdoors.

      Even that couldn’t make her like it here. She didn’t.

      A saloon?

      A saloon. The truth repeated itself in a heavy, condemning voice.

      Oh, God.

      What was she doing here? But she knew. This was, after all, the fifth or sixth one she’d been in. Ashlynne couldn’t remember for certain—and maybe, she thought, she didn’t want to remember. It was bad enough that she found herself here at all. Worse, she didn’t see Ian anywhere in this place, either.

      Ashlynne swallowed a disappointed sigh and crossed her arms over her chest. The night was bitterly cold and a terrible draft blew in beneath the poorly hung door, but the chill had nothing to do with the way she stood. That was due to other, far more important reasons. Such as, with her arms clutched around herself and her hands tucked away, no one could see that she trembled.

      Take your time, she reminded herself with as much cheerful encouragement as she could muster. She took a breath and looked around once more. The room stretched as deep as it did wide, with tables scattered throughout in no apparent order. A bar graced the far wall, a surprisingly sturdy wooden arrangement compared with some of the others she’d seen. The wall behind it boasted shelves that held an array of bottles and glasses. A gilt-framed mirror hung as the area’s centerpiece. It was, by far, the most prosperous-looking place she’d seen in Skagway.

      She didn’t doubt that Ian’s first choice would be a place very much like this.

      Reminded of the urgency of her mission, Ashlynne turned to inspect the men who lounged at the various tables. They seemed contented enough, drinking the night away or staring dumbly at the capricious luck of the playing cards in their hands. But even looking again changed nothing.

      Her heart sank. Ian wasn’t here.

      She would have to keep looking.

      “You lookin’ for someone, honey?”

      “Come on over here, sweetheart, and give us a kiss for luck!”

      The catcalls eliminated any errant sigh of disappointment. Her brief time in Skagway had already accustomed her to withholding her reactions. Ashlynne pressed her lips into a thin line rather than permit the scowl that would reveal more than she dared allow in a place such as this. Especially for a woman alone…

      She turned to leave without ever having stepped more than a foot away from the entrance—and then she saw him.

      It wasn’t Ian. Instead a stranger threaded his way through the scattered tables and chairs. Heading straight for her.

      She should have been swamped with disappointment that it wasn’t Ian—or at least troubled by a new fear. Oddly enough, she was neither. She was, instead…captivated. By nothing more than the sight of this man. She’d never before been so taken by the mere sight of anyone.

      He was big and muscular. Surprisingly so, she thought. He dressed in a fine broadcloth suit like those worn by the most elegant businessmen in San Francisco, and he was, she realized, even taller than Ian. That put him several inches over six feet and well above her own five foot five. And as he moved closer, his features became more distinct, appearing far less rugged than she would have expected for a man who seemed at home in the wilderness of Alaska.

      Or in a saloon.

      He looked to be in his prime, no more than thirty, and almost…aristocratic. His nose was straight, perhaps a little too big to be considered perfect, but it suited his high cheekbones and clean-shaven, square jaw. And while his dark blue eyes pierced her with the force of his stare, they did little enough to draw her attention away from his mouth. His lips were full in a classic bow shape, and the whole image gave him an improper, seductive air.

      An air of wickedness. Something…irresistible. And something that enticed and repelled with equal fervor.

      Or did that impression come from his overlong blond hair? It scraped well past his collar, almost to his shoulders, and tumbled into his eyes. The blunt cut looked tantalizingly tousled, as if he had done nothing more than run his fingers through it once he’d left his bed. Or perhaps someone else—one of the soiled doves who seemed to abound in Skagway?—had done it for him.

      Ashlynne swallowed, astonished by the shamelessness of her thoughts. Her heart had found an extra, erratic beat that left her gasping. She tried to catch her breath but couldn’t seem to manage it. Her heart stumbled, her breathing continued with no apparent rhythm…and the man kept coming.