Wild Enough For Willa. Ann Major

      He yowled. “Give me that!”

      She jumped to safety. “Get off him, you big bully.” Then she scooted backward toward the bedroom. Not that she stopped her bossy scolding. “You’re twice his size! You’ll kill him!”

      “Give me the gun and get back in the bedroom where you belong.”

      “And let you blow that poor child’s brains out?”

      “For the last time! Mind your own business, Willa!”

      “You saved me last night from my own stupidity. I’m returning the favor.”

      McKade lunged. She raced for the bedroom and locked the door behind her. The gun dangled from her fingers and she opened a narrow glass door that led out onto the balcony.

      Where to hide this awful instrument of death?

      Where? There were four stories down to bushes, dirt and cactus, where it could be buried.

      Where? Nowhere!

      Besides, if she dropped the gun, it might explode or something. Like men, loaded guns were not to be trusted.

      Leaving the glass door open, she ran back inside and nearly tripped over the red dress. McKade had a key in the lock of the adjoining door. Grabbing the horrid heap of silk flounces, she dashed into the bathroom, slammed the door and locked it.

      She eyed the gun, scanned the dull, sterile, white-tiled cubicle. Where? Where?

      Nowhere.

      Somewhere a door slammed open. “Willa!” thundered that most irritating of bullying voices.

      She knew that yowl. Knew that fist pounding her bathroom door. The door rattled alarmingly.

      “Just a minute, dear,” she cooed with wifely, saccharine sweetness.

      “Willa!” he muttered. “Quit acting like a fool!”

      She stared at the black gun.

      Where?

      Absolutely nowhere. Still, she had to put the gun somewhere. So in desperation, she opened the toilet tank and dropped it into the water.

      Plop. Gurgle. Lots of satisfying bubbles.

      Did bullets rust? She scooted the lid back in place, seized the postage-stamp bit of silk and wriggled into it as best she could. As she adjusted the flounces that barely covered her derriere, McKade kept up his furious pounding. When she was dressed, or rather squeezed into the awful playsuit, frilly skirt and all, she stared at herself in the mirror.

      Oh, dear, dear, dear, said Mrs. Connor.

      Breasts. Legs. All those wild curls. That drowsy look in her hot, sexy eyes. And that telltale blush that betrayed an alarming amount of excitement. Terrible as last night had been, there was nothing like danger and drama to give life a keen edge, or to make a girl who’d been blinded by love see clearly.

      Brand had been the biggest mistake of her life. He hadn’t respected her, hadn’t seen past her sexy, good looks.

      She studied her reflection. Cheap. Tarty. Come on, honey.

      But cute.

      No wonder a man of McKade’s low sexual instincts had formed the same opinion Brand had had, that she was a party girl who would put out.

      Do not concede a moral inch.

      Thank you, Mrs. Connor. McKade had no right to judge her on her appearance. It was most unreasonable. But she would use it. Maybe if she could get his mind on sex, she could outthink him.

      Don’t get all conceited because you turn him on.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Connor,” she whispered to the tart in the mirror.

      Willa, of course, prided herself on being unreasonable. Most unreasonable. After all, it was a woman’s prerogative. If McKade was such a fool not to see the intelligent, vital woman inside the tarty, bimbo getup; if he was such a cad he’d take advantage of a desperate woman he deserved whatever he got.

      Her wanton reflection jumped—due to McKade’s bellowing and male bluster on the other side of the door. She watched the door rattle, almost relishing his thunder.

      How long could the big lug keep that up? Such fierce male energy—it was rather exciting having all that bluster and determination directed at her. She decided to wait and see how long he could rant.

      For no reason at all, she wondered what he’d be like in bed. All that energy. Would he attack? Or be gentle? He certainly had a lot of bad-boy passion. She turned him on, too.

      Only when McKade stopped slamming his fist against the door, and all got quiet outside, did her curiosity get the better of her.

      She fluffed her hair, threw back her head, opened the door, and went into the bedroom in the tight red dress. McKade’s eyes blazed, so she wiggled her hips like a burlesque queen, strutting almost…just to get his goat…and to unhook the wires to his brain, too. McKade liked it when she strutted her stuff.

      One minute, the men had been glowering at each other by the glass door. Then she sashayed out like a stripper about to start her act and tension charged the three of them like a jolt of blue-hot electricity. Her wanton wiggle was like a match, arcing into a pool of gasoline.

      McKade’s gaze grew fiercer. A slow smile broke across his disreputable captive’s thin face. When the boy ogled her, McKade got so mad he looked like he was about to blow a gasket. Which, oddly enough, greatly pleased Willa.

      “Don’t even think about her,” said McKade. “She’s mine.”

      The kid’s smile thinned sardonically. “Really? She doesn’t look to me like she belongs to anybody.”

      The kid, Little Red, with the crazily spiked orange-red hair, was growing on her fast.

      “Where’s the gun?” McKade demanded.

      She notched her nose up defiantly. “I said, you don’t have to shout. The last thing you two need is a gun.”

      “I like her sass,” Little Red said.

      “Shut up.” McKade scowled at Willa. “Is it out here?”

      “Do you ever listen?” she demanded.

      “No, he does not,” said Little Red. “What’s a nice girl like you doing shacked up with a rude jerk like him?”

      “We’re not shacked up,” said Willa huffily.

      “Good for you,” said Little Red.

      “Not yet,” growled McKade.

      “You didn’t shoot Brand, did you?” she asked, batting her lashes at the kid, mainly because it had such a powerful effect on McKade. His face had gone as dark as a prune.

      Little Red looked sullen…until he caught on she was flirting with him to bedevil McKade.

      “I bet you’re a good shot,” she said to the boy.

      McKade swore in an undertone. “He missed, didn’t he?”

      “The asshole stole my rented car,” explained Little Red.

      Which meant Brand could and would come after her. Which meant that she had to get out of here fast.

      “Sorry to break up this little party,” said McKade. “But I’m taking you back to New Mexico, kid.”

      “Can I come, too?” Willa asked.

      The men were too wrapped up in their own war to answer her.

      “Nobody, especially not you, is gonna tell me what to do—you—you bastard,” the kid whispered.

      McKade grabbed the boy by the collar, shook him and then shoved him roughly out the door.

      Bastard. Willa made a mental note. That particular