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.
