Kitty watched his worn bootheels clomp against the sidewalk's dusty wooden planks, then turn into the entrance to the jail. He shouldered the door open and slammed it behind him. She heard the sound of the lock being set.
The white ostrich feather that had been stuck in her hair worked itself free. It drifted to the scratched jail floor. "You're supposed to let the crowd in," she said, trying to sound dignified with her cheek pressed against the small of his back.
"Not this time," he answered, his voice grim.
She considered stretching down to bite his tight, denim-covered butt.
As if he'd read her mind, she found herself swiftly upended and back on her feet. Breathing hard and aware that her face was likely as red as one of the ripe beefsteak tomatoes growing in Aunt Cat's backyard, Kitty hesitated over which strip of his hide to take off first. She pursed her lips.
His dark gaze went blacker and he focused on her mouth. "You've got to get something straight, Kitty."
"What?" Her surprise at the whole over-his-shoulder episode gave way to anger. "That sounds like you're accusing me of doing something wrong when it's you who can't get the dialogue straight or the stage directions right. I didn't turn you upside down."
His gaze washed down her body, then back up. "That's a matter of opinion."
She stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
His jaw hardened. "Kitty, if we're going to continue with this farce, you've got to stop tugging my chain."
She blinked, but that didn't change a thing. He still looked serious, as if he truly believed that she'd been doing something to him. But the plain truth was she could hardly do more than breathe - and even that was difficult - when he was within twenty feet of her.
"You..." Her mind blanked out. Trying to reclaim her thoughts, she slowly ran her tongue against her bottom lip.
"That's it." Dylan grabbed her by the arm again and propelled her toward the cell in the rear of the one-room jail.
Before she could sputter a word, she was behind bars. The cell door clanged shut, and then he locked it with the old-fashioned iron key on the old-fashioned iron ring.
She wrapped her fingers around the heavy bars, positioned lengthwise every six inches or so, and pressed her body against them. "What are you doing?"
He turned his back and swooped down for the feather on the floor. "I'm supposed to arrest you. Put you in jail."
"With the tourists here to witness it," she reminded him, half bewildered again. "If they're outside the jail, what's the point of locking me up?"
He stalked toward her. "The point of locking you up?" The hand holding her feather snaked through the bars and pushed it back into her topknot. Then lingered.
"The point of locking you up," he murmured, his fingers sinking, unwillingly it seemed, into her hair, "is to prevent this." He pulled her head back and leaned his body forward. From the other side of the bars, his mouth lowered.
* * *
Dylan jammed his mouth against Kitty's, inhaling the sweet scent of roses and tasting the satisfying fruit of retribution. She deserved his punishment.
For coercion. For forcing him into this dumb, undignified role of "sheriff."
She deserved it because he hadn't slept the past few nights, and instead of the usual nightmare, it was Kitty who'd starred in his dreams.
She deserved it because when he'd walked into the brothel wearing his great-great-granddaddy's star, time had spun backward. Not one hundred and fifty years back, but nine years, maybe ten, when he'd first noticed little Kitty Wilder had developed a willowy body and eyes as blue as the sun streaming through the cobalt glass bowl on the judge's dining room table.
He ground his mouth against hers, tilting her head for a harder, hotter fit, because he hated how her soiled dove's dress revealed the flawless rise of her small breasts and that he'd had to share the view with every Dick, Harry, and Tom Tourist traipsing through the goddamn town.
Angry blood burning through him, he swept his tongue against her pouty lower lip. He roughed it up, lashing against it in short, quick strokes, because she made him want to drag her somewhere, anywhere, and rip off that stupid dress so he could bury himself inside her until he didn't remember who he was or why he couldn't live in the place he loved best.
His tongue grazed her bottom lip again, and as if she couldn't tell this was