Bounty Hunter's Bride. Carol Finch
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This little bundle of lavender satin and lace had it all—the delicate skin and bone structure, the curvaceous body, the beguiling face and a coil of silver-blond hair that reminded Cale of trapped moonbeams. His rough handling had caused one side of her coiffure to come unwound, leaving two thick, curly strands dangling on his shoulder—just close enough for him to get a whiff of their clean scent.
Why had the personification of every man’s sweetest dream rapped on his door, offering him a proposition? What the hell was this? Some kind of cruel joke? Hadn’t he been ridiculed because of his mixed heritage often enough without her showing up to remind him of who and what he was?
Suspicion clouded Cale’s mind again. He wondered if some spiteful renegade who wanted to launch him to hell had paid her to set him up. “Skeet, guard the door,” he ordered gruffly.
With ears laid back and an unwelcoming snarl, the dog obeyed instantly, sinking down on his haunches in the hallway. Cale kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. When he shifted to pat the woman down, ensuring that she wasn’t packing hardware, she squawked in offended dignity.
“Now see here, sir! There is no call to manhandle me! I only came for a chat. Any fool can see I’m not the slightest threat to you.”
“Where’re you from, princess?” he asked as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her gown to check for stashed weapons in her soft kid boots. Again she squealed indignantly when his hand touched her leg. He ignored her and completed his search. When he was assured she was hiding nothing but her seductively curvaceous body, he dropped the pistol still trained on her and slid it into its holster.
She made a big production of fluffing the wrinkles—caused by his manhandling—from the sleeve of her gown. Then she looked down that pert little nose at him. “I swear, I’ve never met a more suspicious man. Do you greet all your guests with a gun to the chin and a swift frisk?” she asked with a huff.
“I don’t usually have guests, only intruders,” he reported as he motioned for her to take a chair at the table. “I asked where you hail from.”
“N’Awlins, though I don’t see that it matters,” she said snippily.
“Figured as much. That drawl is unmistakable.”
Hanna took a seat, noting Cale Elliot didn’t do her the courtesy of pulling out her chair the way most gentlemen would. But what did she expect? This rough-edged bounty hunter knew nothing about polished manners and etiquette. Not that she held it against him. She’d had her fill of haughty aristocrats who showered her with effusive flattery and fawned over her in hopes of drawing the interest of a wealthy shipping heiress.
When Cale straddled a chair—backward—and stared warily at her from beneath his furrowed brow, she realized this was a novel experience for her. He was a novel experience. This brawny bounty hunter, who dressed in worn buckskin, was absolutely nothing like the stuffy gentlemen her father had tossed in her path since she’d blossomed into a woman. There was a wild, dynamic presence about this man that intrigued her.
Eyes as dark as midnight, surrounded by a hedge of coal-black lashes, bore into her, as if searching out the hidden secrets in her soul. A leather band at the base of his neck anchored his long glossy hair—hair as black and shiny as a raven’s wings. He looked as if he hadn’t been within a mile of a razor in weeks. His dark beard and mustache gave him a most formidable appearance.
Hanna was certain that even her father might be just a tad intimidated by this ominous-looking creature. She knew for a fact that Cale Elliot was a solid, muscular six-foot-two and two hundred plus pounds, because she’d been plastered up against his rock-solid body. He was hard-edged, tough and suspicious. Not to mention that only God knew how much blood he had on his hands. This, she predicted, was the last man on earth her father would want her to marry—which was one more reason why Cale Elliot was positively perfect for her.
“Are you married?” she blurted out, then bit her lip and cursed her lack of finesse.
Two black eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What the hell kind of question is that?” he said, then snorted.
“A straightforward one,” she replied, marshaling her nerve and her resolve. “Are you married or not?”
“No. Are you?” he retorted in the same gruff tone he’d employed since the moment he yanked her up against him and jammed his pistol to her throat.
“Not yet, but I plan to be very soon,” she replied resolutely.
Cale frowned, bemused. “Why are we having this conversation and who are you?”
Hanna overlooked his rude manner and defiantly ignored his question. With each passing second she became increasingly confident that this was the man she needed to ensure her independence from her father. Cale Elliot was hard as nails, formidable and abrupt. His reputation and occupation warned most people away. Most people, but not Hanna Malloy. She’d marry him on the spot if there were a clergyman or justice of the peace present.
“All right, Miz N’Awlins,” he drawled, mocking her Southern accent. “What’s this business about a proposition? I’ve had a long three weeks and I’m ready for a bath, a nap and a hearty meal. You’re keeping me from them. What the hell do you want with me?”
Hanna lifted her chin and met his piercing stare. Fleetingly she wondered if the devil himself had eyes this deep and black and penetrating.
“Well? Spit it out,” he snapped impatiently. “Your time’s almost up. I don’t like conversations that last more than a minute.”
Hanna flinched at his razor-sharp tone. She had to get up her nerve all over again. Since Cale Elliot apparently preferred straightforward and right-to-the-point dialogue, she’d accommodate him.
“I want to marry you,” she told him flat out. “I have five thousand dollars in cash as incentive to convince you to accept.”
Cale reared back so abruptly that he very nearly launched himself off his chair. His obsidian eyes shot open in stunned surprise and his bewhiskered jaw dropped to his broad chest. “Wha’d you say?” he choked out.
His shocked expression provoked her amused smile. If nothing else, she had Cale’s undivided attention. “You heard me, Mr. Elliot. I want a husband and I want one now. I want that husband to be you.”
He just stared at her as if she had Spanish moss dangling from her earlobes. Well, she mused, she supposed they were even now. He looked as stunned as she’d felt when he’d rammed a pistol beneath her chin and clamped her against his brick wall of a chest.
When Cale finally recovered from his shock, his gaze narrowed dubiously. This had to be a setup, he decided. Unfortunately, he was too rattled to figure out what the hell was going on. Why would this enchanting, sophisticated female propose to him? To distract and confuse him? Someone had obviously put her up to it. No decent woman in her right mind would want to attach herself to the stigma that followed him like a looming shadow.
He had a dozen strikes against him, and she looked to be all that was gentle and refined in this world. She could have her pick of beaus, and she claimed she wanted to marry him? There was definitely a catch, he decided. Was she a ruined woman who desperately needed a name for her unborn babe? Was she intent on punishing an unfaithful suitor by taking a husband far below her social status?
Another thought, of a dark and violent nature, bombarded Cale. If this lovely creature had been set upon by some lusting, abusive bastard, who’d left her with child the same way—
Cale jerked upright, refusing to let bitter memories of the past intrude and distract him. It was true that he was rough around the edges, had very little formal education and no sophistication whatsoever, but if there was one thing his Cherokee mother had taught him it was never to misuse a woman to satisfy his own needs. He had never forced himself on a woman and he didn’t hold with men who did.
“Well, Mr. Elliot?” she prompted when he lingered so long in thought. “I’ll pay you half the money