DangerousPassion (3 page)

“I told you to walk away from this,” the man repeated, stepping closer. Despite his size, he moved with amazing grace and fluidity.

Jimbo quickly surmised that the intruder was alone, and once he was confident of this, his attitude changed immediately. He stepped closer to the stranger, moving away from his beautiful captive.

“No, mister, it’s you who had better turn tail and run like hell,” Jimbo said, menace dripping from every word that passed between his saliva-glistening lips. “Get your ass out of here now while I still say you can.”

The stranger looked at Sarah and in a tone that was oddly conversational considering the circumstances, said, “The name’s Derek. I’ll get you out of this in just a moment.”

“Seems like this is an imbecile that done wants to die!” Jimbo cackled. He waved the big Bowie knife through the air. “He ain’t even wearin’ a gun!” He spit on the ground, hitting the toe of Derek’s left boot. As he began slicing the air again with his knife, he hissed, “Looks like I’m just gonna have to gut you!”

Derek’s next move was made so fast and smooth that even though Sarah had watched the entire thing, afterward, she couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t sorcery. Derek reached inside his jacket, under his left arm. When his hand reappeared, a fraction of a second later, he held a Colt in his big right fist. And then there was the hideous roar of the revolver. The force of the bullet that punched into Jimbo’s chest sent him sprawling onto his back in the livery corral.

The other men were just starting to react, all of them reaching for guns in holsters, when Derek’s heavy Colt screamed its vengeance once again, barely a second after the first. Another deafening explosion; another young, vicious outlaw was sent tumbling in the dirt and manure of the corral.

Two men were dead. By this time the fastest draw among the outlaws was just clearing his revolver from its holster. He would have been better off if he’d raised his hands and given up. Derek’s aim was true, and the fastest draw among the young killers was the third to die.

What had been a gang of nine was now down to six. The six remaining, all of them dazed at the speed with which their ranks had been decimated, turned as though a single unit and ran for the open door of the stables, seeking cover from which they might return fire with relative safety.

“Come on,” Derek said, reaching a hand out to Sarah. “We’ve out-stayed our welcome.”

Sarah had no intention of putting her hand in Derek’s, or in going anywhere with him. He was a dangerous brute in a black suit. He was obviously skilled in the horrible arts of warfare and gun fighting. He was probably a man cut from the same bolt of cloth as the younger, coarser gunmen who had attacked her.

But a frantic voice inside Sarah’s brain admitted that he was indeed a killer—but he was not at all the same type killer as those who had ripped open her dress and tore off most of her camisole. In a flashing epiphany, Sarah realized that no amount of contempt for violence would, in fact, stop violence from occurring. In the grandest irony of all, Sarah realized that her only hope of safety rested in the man who seemed most violent of all.

Placing her hand in Derek’s much larger one, she said, “Please, get me out of this.”

Derek smiled. It was an incongruous expression under the circumstances, but it made Sarah feel a little more confident just the same.

“Trust me,” he said, then began leading Sarah into the shadows of Deadwood’s deserted back streets, running swiftly but not as fast as he could.

Sarah was about to say that Derek was running too fast, and that she would surely fall down at any second. But just as she was about to speak, she heard the reports of revolvers being fired. A bullet kicked up dirt at her right foot as she ran, missing her by inches.

It added swiftness to her stride as she clutched onto Derek as though holding a lifeline.

Chapter Two

That morning, Sarah had chosen to wear her ankle-high, side-button boots with two-inch heels. The footwear was of good quality and quite fashionable. They were also almost impossible to run fast in. She tried to keep up with Derek while he ran a zigzagging course through the back streets of Deadwood, but he had to pull her along just the same.

They went six blocks before Derek stopped running. He put a finger to Sarah’s lips, silencing her even before she had begun to speak. He looked back in the direction from which they’d come. Several seconds later, Sarah heard the pounding of boots against the dirt street.

“Come on,” Derek said, leading Sarah down a litter-strewn dark alley.

Though they were hurrying, they were no longer running, and Sarah was thankful for that. Her right hand was still held by Derek. With her left hand, she held the bodice of her torn dress closed as best she could. When she tried to ease her right hand free from Derek’s grip so that she might see if there was some hope of repairing her camisole and regaining some measure of modesty, he refused to release her.

“Wait, wait,” Sarah said finally, breathing heavily now as Derek guided her down yet another dark alley. “I think we’ve lost them.” Derek glanced back over his shoulder at her, clearly annoyed. Between gulps of air, Sarah said, “Please, I’ve...got to stop...to catch my...breath.”

Derek stopped then. He turned toward her, and though it was clear that every muscle in his body was tensed and prepared for action, there was a certain compassionate tenderness in his eyes that Sarah was thankful for. He looked only at her face, managing to keep his eyes from her beautiful, bountiful, nearly completely exposed breasts. That was another thing that Sarah was thankful for. In that instant, it was impossible for Sarah to remember that violent men like Derek were exactly the kind of men that she disliked the most in this world.

Sarah caught the torn halves of her camisole and inspected the shredded cotton. A swath perhaps four or five inches wide had been completely torn away from the very center of it. There was no possible way that she could repair the camisole. When she checked her dress, she saw that all of the buttons from the neckline to the belt were missing.

When she thought about what the outlaws had intended to do to her, Sarah felt a wave of gratitude that Derek had given them the swift and merciless justice that they had deserved.

And then Sarah felt guilty for her emotions.

“Where are they, Tookie?” a young gunman shouted from the end of the alley. “Anybody see what way they was headed?”

Sarah gasped. Derek instantly clamped his big hand over her mouth to silence her. She cupped her naked breasts in her hands to hide them. Derek pushed her backward, deeper into the shadows of the alley, until she was against the exterior brick wall of a business that had closed its doors for the day many hours earlier.

With Derek so close, Sarah was suddenly aware of just how tall and powerful he was. He leaned against her, his lower chest pressing against the backs of Sarah’s hands. She felt the pressure against her breasts and found it curious that the sensation was not unpleasant.

More shouts echoed down the deserted, muddy back streets of Deadwood. The sound of running feet came from the other end of the alley, and Sarah realized then that there were now more than the remaining six gunmen from the livery corral chasing her. From the sound of it, there had to be nearly a dozen men—perhaps even more—chasing her and Derek, and that they were at both ends of the alley. They were like a wolf pack chasing after a frightened, vulnerable doe, howling in the night to orchestrate their attack. The difference was, if these two-legged wolves caught Sarah, she would not be devoured. What these blood-thirsty animals had in mind for her would not be that merciful.

A man’s voice, young and yet already ringing with vicious sadism, said from less than thirty yards to Sarah’s left, “I saw them around here. I’m sure I did. That bitch has got to be close!”

“Frankie, what makes you so damned sure?” another voice added. “Billy Joe said he saw somethin’ over near Old Man Barton’s store.”

Footsteps retreated. Sarah felt Derek sigh. His body was hard with sinewy muscle, and despite the fear that gripped her, she was distinctly aware of the man’s overwhelming masculine aura. His was the kind of masculinity that touched her at an instinctual level, even though the man’s actions warned her that he was too dangerous for polite society.

Derek bent low, putting his lips near Sarah’s ear. He whispered, “Stay still. They haven’t any idea where we are. When they leave, then we’ll move on. I don’t know these back alleys, but they don’t seem to, either.”

He took a half step backward so that his body was no longer in contact with Sarah’s. She continued to keep her hands over the lush mounds of her breasts. She looked up into his face, into the black pools of his eyes. He seemed more angry than frightened, and this completely mystified Sarah. How many men trying to kill him did it take before he was afraid of being hunted?

“This really isn’t your fight,” Sarah whispered in the darkness. She felt guilty for the danger she’d put him in. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

Derek shook his head. The move was almost imperceptible. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he explained. “What’s happening here tonight isn’t your fault.”

“I’m scared. I’m so scared.”

Sarah hated the tone of her voice, but she could not deny
¾
even to herself
¾
the truth in her words. She was entirely emotionally unprepared to fight this kind of war. Her battles had always taken place in the boardrooms and executive offices of the First Bank & Trust of Deadwood, not in the dark alleys of Deadwood’s poorest section of town, hiding from a vicious gang of young outlaws searching with violent desperation for her.

“Don’t be frightened,” Derek said, the deep timbre of his voice somehow rough and soft at the same time. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Afterward, Sarah could not understand why she did it. She hadn’t consciously planned it to happen. With complete disregard to consequences, she removed her right hand from her breast, kissed the tips of her fingers, then brought her fingertips to Derek’s lips. He kissed her fingertips as his dark eyes bore into Sarah’s with fiery intensity. Then she watched his penetrating gaze go down to her exposed breast, with its round, light brown areola and the nipple that had become erect with fear. Sarah’s nipple became tighter, more erect, as though responding favorably to Derek’s visual caress.

“I’ll protect you,” Derek said, his lips moving softly against Sarah’s fingertips, his tone now husky with suppressed passion. “I promise you that.”

Sarah almost told Derek that she could protect herself. She had been an independent woman too long to not immediately consider such a response. It was what she wanted to say, even though logic told her that in this particular instance, she needed Derek more than she had ever needed any man in her life. She also wanted to hide her naked breast with her hand, as she had previously, but when she took her hand away from Derek’s mouth, her arm dropped to hang loose at her side.

“I’ll take care of you,” Derek said as he bent down, his face coming closer to Sarah’s. “Trust me. You’ve got to trust me.”

A thousand separate thoughts ricocheted through Sarah’s brain. Derek bent slowly, so there was plenty of time for her to indicate that she did not wish to experience his kisses. But she gave no such indication. She just stood there, her left hand over one breast, her other breast exposed, as Derek brought his mouth to hers.

A vicious brute like Derek is incapable of knowing how to kiss, Sarah thought an instant before his lips came into contact with her own.

As had happened before, Sarah discovered that her initial assessment of the stranger with the quicksilver draw and deadly accuracy, was inaccurate. She was completely, blissfully, magnificently wrong.

And never in her life had it felt so right to be so wrong.

Initially, Derek merely brushed his lips across Sarah’s, planting butterfly kisses from one side of her mouth to the other. And then, very softly, the tip of his tongue came out to moisten her lips, first the upper, then the lower. Only when all this had been done with the most erotic lethargy, so that Sarah’s entire soul ached for the full impact of his kiss upon her lips, did Derek slant his mouth down over hers. The kiss was firm, authoritative, and when Sarah felt Derek’s lips open, she opened her own invitingly. His tongue, slick and devilish, glided between her lips, entering her mouth to dance with her own tongue.

The soft, tremulous moan of female acquiescence that drifted to Sarah’s ears seemed odd somehow. It took a second or two for her to realize that she had been the one to moan with passion, and it was several seconds later that she became aware that she had never really heard the sound of her own excitement. When Edgar french kissed her, all she felt was an unpleasantness that didn’t quite reach the level of revulsion.

The kiss deepened, and though Sarah at first simply received Derek’s kiss, within seconds she was returning the lusty kiss with equal ardor, playing her tongue against his. She raised her hands, slipping her arms loosely over his broad shoulders. When she felt Derek’s powerful hands slide over the naked extravagance of her breasts, another softly hissing moan escaped her.

“Oh, Derek,” Sarah whispered, her lips brushing his as her better judgment stridently insisted that protests should be given a voice. After all, she hardly knew the man
¾
she didn’t even know his last name!
¾
and there was really no reason in the world she should be kissing him now while a dozen violent young outlaws were searching for them.

But protests from Sarah to Derek were easier to think about than they were to actually speak aloud. This was especially true when Derek, with surprising delicacy considering the demonstrated strength in his hands, captured her nipples between forefingers and thumbs and twisted with a connoisseur’s precision, using just enough force that the pleasure went completely through Sarah. Derek never crossed the gossamer line that separated forceful from painful
¾
but he danced constantly on the high wire defining pleasure from pain, and that made all the difference in the world to Sarah’s awakening libido.

The kiss seemed to last an eternity, but even that wasn’t sufficiently long for Sarah’s satisfaction. When Derek finally took his mouth away from hers, Sarah’s legs were weak, her blood was heated, and there was a distinctly traitorous hunger between her legs that she wished with futile desperation did not exist. Sarah adamantly did not want to be sexually aroused by this distinctly dangerous stranger, and she had every intention in the world of telling him so. Sometime soon. Not quite yet, but very soon.

That is, she would have told Derek he must behave like a gentleman…had he not kissed her cheek, and then her neck, nipping at her tender, silken flesh with his teeth. The sensation hinted at pain, but did nothing more than hint. The pleasure that Derek’s teasing love bites brought was enormous. Sarah angled her head to the side, silently availing herself to Derek’s desires, positioning herself so that she would not thwart any of his cravings. Never once
¾
not in all the times that she had been in Edgar’s arms
¾
had she made such an obvious act of sexual submissiveness and acceptance.

In the distance, though Sarah at that moment, could give no intelligent guess as to what that distance might be, the sounds of the outlaws running and shouting to each other took on a new note. Sarah tried, ever so briefly, to convince herself that the vicious gunmen that she had escaped from only minutes earlier were what she should concentrate on, but this thought vanished when she felt Derek’s right hand release her breast, then his fingertips brushed feather-soft over her stomach, moving downward.