His Most Wanted by Sandra Jones

choice. Whatever his price, this time, she wouldn’t leave the safety of the Willows and her guns.
    â€œWe can talk in my room.” She beckoned him with the tilt of her head. “Would you please lock up again, Bernadette?”
    Her bedroom was lit already, and she gravitated toward the rifle leaning against her wardrobe as soon as the door closed behind Wainwright. His tall body made the spacious quarters shrink as he stalked slowly after her, stopping just an arm’s length away.
    â€œOdd how I don’t recall anything about this room. Must’ve been my headache this morning.” He scanned her bedroom in a long glance, lingering only on the pile of books on her dresser and on the bed as he set his things on the braided rug. “You’re well-read, I see. Self-educated?”
    â€œSomewhat.” She hated to discuss her past. Too painful.
    â€œI admire a woman with a mind for business.”
    Invading her space, he reached for the open wardrobe, where he handled one of her silk dresses hanging within, running his fingertips slowly up the sleeve with a stroke so intimate and deliberate she could almost feel the warmth of his skin on hers. It put an unfamiliar quiver in her belly. If he began opening her drawers, touching her lacy underthings, she would surely melt—and not because of the velvet cloak hidden within the wardrobe either.
    He braced a hand on the door of the cabinet, effectively blocking her path to the door. “Does the bordello bring in a lot of money?”
    His question erased the pleasant tingle in her body that his perusal of her clothes had produced. Did he think she would give up her profits so easily? She gave him a cold look.
    â€œI only ask because my brothel took a hard financial fall shortly after one of its longtime investors passed away. Apparently, I wasn’t the businessman my uncle hoped I was, but I’d like to think I wasn’t the main cause of the business’s demise.” His lips twisted in a sad half smile.
    She moved a step away from the rifle she’d been seeking in the shadows behind her. His wistful tone reminded her again of last night and his drunken words. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, didn’t want to know he grieved. “Kit—”
    â€œI apologize. I hope I wasn’t this maudlin last night. Talking of Uncle Bart? And business?” He snorted. “How much did I pay you? I’m sure it wasn’t enough. You must’ve thought me the worst customer ever.”
    He truly remembered nothing, because if he had, he would know she hadn’t taken a cent of his money.
    â€œNot at all.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Forgive me for being rude, but it’s getting late. What exactly do you have to say to me?”
    He slid his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He then opened it and held it before her. “I’ve been charged with capturing Velvet Grace.”
    The poster had haunted her every move in town, pasted on the wall at the bank, the post office, Jupiter’s, wherever she’d went. Her pulse kicked into a stampede seeing it in the new sheriff’s hand. “W-what does this have to do with me?”
    He refolded the paper and returned it to his clothing. “I figured you might be able to give me a few possible names to begin with. It’s rather extraordinary, a woman who shot a sheriff and fired at the deputy? She wouldn’t be any regular homesteader’s wife, I imagine.”
    She played with a curl that had fallen to her shoulder and forced a laugh. “Do you think I know any women besides the ones who work for me? Really? You should ask me about the men of Fort McNamara, Sheriff. The only other females I see are the wives who come around here looking for their husbands.”
    He laughed. “I guess you’re right.”
    â€œYou’re on your own. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more