Riley's Retribution. Rebecca York

      Very appealing hair, with a strawberry scent that must have come from her shampoo.

      “It’s been so long,” she murmured.

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      When she started to shiver, he figured she was warming up. She was going to be okay, and maybe he should let her go.

      But he was enjoying holding her. She was soft and relaxed in his arms, and he hadn’t been in bed with a woman since forever; to be exact, not since before the damn prison camp. After getting out of that hellhole, he’d felt too needy, and he hadn’t wanted to inflict his insecurities on some random woman he picked up in a bar.

      So he and Miss Sugar might as well share a little counterfeit intimacy. And when she realized he wasn’t her lover, they’d deal with the consequences. All that sounded logical. But he wondered how clearly he was thinking himself as he stroked his lips against that beautiful, sweet-smelling hair.

      Who was she? What was she doing out on the road? Had someone really shot at her?

      She was talking again, her voice still dreamy. Apparently addressing herself to her man, she said, “You came back, and there’s something I have to tell you.” She swallowed. “But I know you’re not going to like it.”

      His muscles tensed as he prepared to hear some other guy’s bad news. “What do you want to tell me?” he managed to say.

      She didn’t answer, and he saw to his profound relief that she had drifted into sleep again. Which postponed the inevitable confrontation.

      He was exhausted, too. From the long ride through the driving snow. From fighting her. And from all the sleepless nights when he’d contemplated this assignment.

      To be brutally honest, he’d hated being the lucky sucker assigned to cozy up to Boone Fowler—after being beaten and tortured in the guy’s prison camp. But he hadn’t tried to duck the job, because somebody had to do it…and he was better equipped than most. He’d always talked a good game, and he looked nothing like Fowler’s former prisoner. And he was pretty sure he knew the right buttons to push to talk his way into the militia leader’s organization.

      He hoped.

      He raised his head and looked at the woman next to him. She was sleeping normally.

      Probably, he shouldn’t leave her alone. But that didn’t mean he had to stay in bed with her, either. He should crawl out from under the covers and try to sleep on the chair in the corner. In a minute, he thought. He’d just relax here for a little while before he heaved himself out of this nice soft bed.

      His eyelids drifted closed, then snapped open again. Lying in bed with this woman was wrong, not to mention dangerous. She could wake up and strangle him.

      Not likely, he told himself. He wasn’t going to sleep. He was only going to rest for a few minutes. Then he’d get up. It was a reasonable scenario. But he drifted off before he could put the plan into action.

      COURTNEY’S EYES BLINKED open. For a moment she had no idea where she was, and panic choked off her breath.

      Had Eddie brought her here?

      She remembered talking to him just a few minutes ago.

      No. That was impossible. Eddie was dead. The man next to her in bed definitely wasn’t him. She knew that for sure.

      Memories floated at the edge of her consciousness, and she struggled to grasp them. When she did, they brought back a mixture of embarrassment and panic.

      Someone up on the bridge had shot at her. She’d tried to get away, skidded off the road and been stuck in the truck—until this man had come along.

      She’d tried to shoot him. But he’d overpowered her and driven her—where?

      She looked around cautiously and didn’t see her gun.

      She turned her face toward the man on the bed.

      He was a handsome devil with sun-streaked brown hair, long lashes, high cheekbones and sensual lips.

      Of course, his appearance didn’t mean squat. Underneath those good looks, he could still be a snake. Could she find the gun without waking him? Probably not.

      The place looked like a motel room. If this guy was out to help her, why hadn’t they gone to the ranch?

      Presumably, because she hadn’t told him who she was.

      Vaguely she remembered his asking her name and her refusing to give it. That might be a dream, though. Like the part about Eddie.

      But she couldn’t remember all the details. Her most vivid impression was that she’d been chilled to the bone—and out of her mind.

      The man next to her moved, and her body went rigid.

      “I won’t hurt you,” he said, shifting so that he could meet her panicked gaze.

      “Who are you?”

      “Riley Watson.”

      As the full impact of the situation hit her, she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”

      “And you are?” he prompted.

      “Courtney Rogers.”

      His complexion went gray, and he was out of bed and halfway across the room before she could blink. “Sorry, ma’am. Wrong bed.”

      They stared at each other across eight feet of charged space.

      “You are the Riley Watson who applied for a job at the Golden Saddle Ranch?” she clarified, knowing she must sound like an idiot. How many other guys named Riley Watson would there be in this part of Montana?

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “It’s not going to work out. I can’t hire you.”

      He stood up straighter. “Why? Because I stopped you from shooting me?”

      She felt her face heat.

      “Or because I got into bed with you?”

      “That part.”

      “You were calling me honey. You were half out of it, and you asked me to hold you.”

      “So you took advantage of me.”

      “Took advantage?” he sputtered. “You’ve still got all your clothes on, haven’t you?”

      She watched him consider how that must have sounded.

      “And you needed me to help warm you up,” he added, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t stuck his foot further into his mouth.

      She honestly hadn’t remembered the part about asking to be held, but when he said it, an embarrassing image filled her brain. How far had she gone in cozying up to this guy that she didn’t even know?

      Well, as he said, she still had her clothing on. That was good. And Mr. Watson looked like he wished he could sink through the floor and into the center of the earth. That was good, too.

      “You found me in my truck—after someone shot at me and I ran off the road?” she asked, struggling to change the subject.

      “At you specifically? Is there someone using random motorists for target practice around here?”

      It was an interesting question. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Then she looked at her watch and puffed out a breath. “But I do know I’d better call the bunkhouse. My hands have to be worried about me.”

      Glad of the chance to turn away from him, she climbed out from under the covers and sat on the side of the bed, then picked up the phone from the bedside table and dialed.

      Jake, one of her ranch hands, answered immediately. “We were worried about you. Are you stuck in town?”

      She hesitated for a moment, wavering between truthfulness and the need to make sure her ranch hand wasn’t