Coming for Labor Day Weekend!
“A killer with a heart,” Sabina said softly, speculatively. “How odd.”
“I’m not a cold-blooded killer, Miss La Corte. I kill for a reason.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Sartain. Word is going around. You’re the one they call the Revenger. Wanted in nearly every territory on the frontier. You killed many soldiers because they killed your woman and unborn child, and now you kill for others who cannot kill for themselves. How odd that after all your killing you still have a heart.”
Sartain only shrugged.
“Or maybe you really don’t. Maybe you only wish to believe you do, because you don’t wish to believe you’re as bad as the men you kill. You somehow hold yourself above reproach because you have a conscience. You believe you’re somehow better than the men you hunt.”
The Mexican beauty shook her head slowly, holding his gaze with a hard one of her own. “But you aren’t. You can’t be. Otherwise you would hang up that big pistol of yours. What’s more, you would ride out of here because a woman asked you to, because she doesn’t want anymore of the innocent citizens of her town killed by you or by the men you are here to kill.”
Sartain picked up his shot glass. His hand was shaking. Brandy sloshed over the rim and onto the table.
He threw back the rest of the liquor and then, feeling as though his heart were fairly exploding with rage and frustration, he flung the glass against the door. It thudded with the sound of a pistol shot and shattered.
Sabina gave a clipped yell and lowered her head, raising her hands to her ears. She swept her hair back from her eyes and stared up at him. Trembling, Sartain stood and walked around the table to her. He drew her up by her shoulders.
Beneath his rage, passion thundered. It pierced his loins like the blade of a dull bayonet.
She stared at him fearfully in the lamplight. Her ripe upper lip trembled slightly. He placed his hands on her cheeks. She shook her head violently. “No!”
Sartain released her. She stumbled back against the wall, kicking her chair. She leaned there, half falling against the wall, hands splayed against it on either side of her, staring at him like a deer knowing that a hunter’s sites were lined up on her.
She glanced down at his crotch. Her eyes widened. Her tongue flicked against her upper lip. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.
“Oh, god,” she whispered. “Oh, god, forgive me!”
She pushed herself off the wall and into his arms.
He closed his mouth over hers. Her breasts heaved against him. He shoved her back suddenly and with blind passion ripped her blouse off her shoulders. That stunned her. Shocked, she looked down at her exposed breasts, her hair hanging down around her cheeks.
He’d ripped off her blouse as well as her camisole. Both torn garments hung off her shoulders. He himself was stunned by the sudden violence of his passion. He half-expected her to flee.
Instead, she looked up at him, her lips parted. She stepped toward him and placed his hands on the cones of her heaving bosoms.
“Take me,” she whispered.
He swept her up in his arms and threw her onto the bed.