Her Forbidden Gunslinger. Harper George St.

combination, and she wondered if that alone was the reason she was so fascinated by him, but then he spoke.

      “Did he hurt you?” His gaze touched every part of her face, leaving her skin hot and tingling where it lingered.

      In that look, she understood why she was drawn to him. The genuine concern there. He was the only one who looked at her as someone who might be in pain or need help. He gave her a glimpse of what it might be like to feel safe, even though the very idea of safe was wrong. If Jean ordered any of his men to remove her as a threat, none of them would hesitate.

      Gray included. She shivered, reminding herself to never forget that. But still she couldn’t step away.

      “No, he didn’t. I’m fine.” But then she shook her head because she wasn’t fine at all. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. The back of her throat ached and she swallowed past the lump that had formed there.

      “Just breathe in.” His hands began to lightly stroke up and down the length of her back. Again her body obeyed his command and she took in a deep gulp of air. “Now let it out slowly.”

      His startling gray eyes held hers as he bid her repeat the process two more times. He was so confident in his soothing commands that the tension began to seep from her body. The feeling of security inexplicably made her confide her trouble to him. “I’m going to be married. I don’t…” But her voice trailed off when his eyes narrowed.

      “When?” The question was a breath between them.

      “In a month.” Oh, God, only weeks away! She bit the inside of her lip to keep it from trembling.

      For a moment there was nothing, no response, nothing flickering in his eyes. There was only the sound of his breathing, slow and even. She fancied she felt it caress her cheek, but it was a ridiculous thought to savor now when her world had been pulled out from under her.

      “Who’s the groom?” The muscle in his jaw tightened and he clenched his hands almost possessively at her waist.

      “Monsieur Beaudin,” she whispered.

      “He doesn’t deserve you.” The words were so emphatic and blasphemous, spoken there in the hallway just outside her uncle’s door, that they shocked her. Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was a prisoner in every sense of the word?

      She searched his face, looking for the meaning behind them, but the momentary ferocity brought about with those words had gone and his handsome visage was impassive again. Still, she couldn’t stop the flush of pleasure they evoked as she settled on his gray eyes. They were dark like the clouds of a thunderstorm. She’d never seen anything like them.

      “Who would deserve me?” She hadn’t meant to ask, but his intense stare had hypnotized the question from her.

      That stare never wavered when he answered. “Somebody who’ll take care of you.”

      His words were so pleasing she closed her eyes briefly to revel in them. She’d almost forgotten what it meant to be taken care of, to not wake up every morning and battle the fear that constantly plagued her. Life with Anton would be a gross continuation of her life with Jean. Never knowing when she might displease him. Never knowing when a remark might provoke him to strike her, or give her a week locked away in her room with scarcely enough food to sustain her. She’d learned to gauge Jean so those things rarely happened now, but with Anton she’d have to start over.

      But Gray… She took in a long, shuddering breath. Gray was a protector. The woman who was lucky enough to be his would never know fear. There would be so much more. It was those thoughts of more that made her become aware of the impropriety of their near-embrace and slowly push herself away from him. His hands dropped from her waist with a lingering caress that she imagined was intentional, while her own hands reluctantly returned to her sides.

      “I’m afraid the question of my care doesn’t figure into things.” She attempted a parting smile. “Thank you.” And she started to walk past him, but his eyes held hers a little longer. There was something deep and longing there, but impossible to explore. So she walked to the stairs while trying to pretend that she couldn’t still feel his hands on her, that she wouldn’t perpetually relive that brief moment in his arms. It was the only time he had touched her and she knew she’d never forget it.

      * * *

      Gray took a long, final drag from his cigarillo before flicking it so it went flying in a high arc into the street. The orange glow of the tip bounced twice before settling in the dirt to slowly burn out. He wanted his hunger for Sophie to burn out just as easily, but it wouldn’t. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t forget the hopelessness on her face that morning. He wanted to think of her as he thought of Jean LaSalle: cold, remote, arrogant. But she wasn’t any of those. She tried to be remote but her eyes gave her away; he wanted to know what they hid from the world.

      Watching her walk away from him had been harder than it should have been. Even now he could recall the faint trace of honeysuckle she had left behind and how he had stood there breathing it in until her scent too had gone. The warmth of her body still clung to his hands where he’d held her.

      He wanted to forget, but his eyes kept drifting to her anyway. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Nelsons’ mansion, they found her effortlessly among the other dancers. With her crown of golden hair and deep blue gown she could have been one of the angels on LaSalle’s ceiling. His gaze drifted down to the way the gown clung to her small waist and then the creamy globes of flesh that threatened to spill from its bodice. No, he amended, she was too earthy to be angelic. He forced his gaze from that temptation to her face. She was smiling, but it was strained and didn’t meet her eyes. They were turbulent like the pale, clear blue of a mountain stream in spring.

      The familiar impulse to just take her called to him. He’d felt it months ago when he’d first come to work for LaSalle, and now it thundered through him like the drum of his own heartbeat. Life on the plains was so much simpler. If he wanted her and was strong enough to take her, protect her, then he could have her. But life in Helena was more complicated, and taking her wouldn’t help him reach his goal, so he beat back the urge and refocused.

      She was dancing with Anton Beaudin. The lustful gleam in the man’s eye was unmistakable and it immediately made Gray angry, though he was her groom and had every right to his thoughts. But the idea of Sophie giving herself to that cocky bastard made Gray want to smash his fist into the man’s face. His jaw tensed as he turned away from the window.

      A vision of her in his own arms flashed through his mind, but he immediately checked the unwarranted thought. She was white and her uncle was rich. Both of those made her beyond the reach of a dirty, half-breed Comanche bastard. He’d given up any notion of courting a respectable, white woman long ago. And the fact that LaSalle was the meanest son of a bitch he’d ever come across, was further deterrent.

      Besides those things, she deserved someone better than him. He’d never make her happy.

      Gray shook his head and reminded himself he had a job to do. Sophie Buchanan was nothing but a distraction and she’d probably hate him when his task was finished. The sooner she got married the better.

      But as soon as he had gotten his thoughts in order, her voice with its soft French intonations carried to him. It wasn’t a heavily accented voice like LaSalle’s. The inflection could only be heard in the occasional word, just often enough to make him listen for it. His gaze scanned the street, visibly as vigilant as he was supposed to be, but ravenously drinking up the sound of her voice.

      “Monsieur Sinclair, please, if someone could just take me home.”

      The hint of desperation in Sophie’s voice caught Gray’s attention. He turned his head slightly to see her standing just outside the closed terrace doors, pulling off her white gloves to fan herself with them. Sinclair stood before her, his back slightly blocking her, so that Gray had to move closer to hear the conversation.

      “It’s almost midnight. Supper will be served soon. Don’t you think eating something will make you feel better?”