The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,8
on her and she was calculating how fast she could reach the door to escape his evil clutches.
Van swallowed a grin—and realized he didn’t have reason to smile often. She was a refreshing change in his routine. And yes, he did admit that veering into the bedroom to catch up on the lack of intimate activity he’d suffered lately held tremendous appeal. But caution overrode temptation. He was curious to know what sort of plot the auburn-haired beauty was trying to embroil him in.
His thoughts scattered like a flock of geese when some-one—Bart, judging by the precise knock—rapped on the door. Sunshine nearly leaped out of her fetching yellow gown but she composed herself quickly and spun toward the door.
“It’s me,” Bart called out, then burst in without awaiting invitation. He set the whiskey bottle on the table near the window, along with three glasses.
“This is Bartholomew Collier, my business manager and local lawyer,” Van introduced. “Bart, this is…” He waited for her to fill in the blank.
“Anna Jones,” she supplied smoothly as she extended her hand to Bart.
She graced Bart with a dazzling smile that all but melted him into a gooey puddle. When he collected himself, he doubled over her hand, then pressed a light kiss to her wrist.
Although Bart had taught Van white society’s social nuances, he bowed to no one—man or woman.
In Indian culture, to do so was a sign of weakness.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jones,” Bart murmured against her wrist.
Anna Jones? Ha! Van inwardly scoffed. Before the evening ended, he vowed to discover the woman’s real name and find out what she really wanted from him. Bart could play all the senseless social games he wanted but Van had survived well enough for thirty-two years without bothering with the white man’s social posturing and protocol.
“Thanks for the whiskey and glasses,” Van said dismissively. “We’ll talk later, Bart.”
Bart glanced at the bottle and glasses Van scooped up, then stared pensively at Anna Jones—or whoever she really was. Van inclined his head toward the door, directing Bart to make himself scarce—and do it fast.
When Bart exited reluctantly, Van set a glass of whiskey in front of Miss Jones. “Drink up, sunshine.”
She sat down beside him on the settee but she didn’t reach for her drink. He took her hand and wrapped it around the glass. Her dark eyes popped when he touched her and he found himself swallowing another grin. Sunshine wasn’t as bold and daring as she’d let on in public. He guessed she was a tad bit afraid of him. Good. He preferred to maintain an edge with clients and antagonists.
He still wasn’t sure which one Little Miss Sunshine was.
Van sipped his drink and urged her to do the same. When she didn’t, he said, “In negotiations, which I figure this must be, Indians pass a peace pipe. White man’s policy is to discuss the assignment over a glass of wine or whiskey.” He didn’t mention that peace pipes usually contained ingredients that had the same effects of liquor. “This is the only white protocol I usually follow. I leave the hand-kissing to gentlemen, which I am not and never plan to be.”
He half turned on the couch to face her directly. “Now what is it that you really want from me, sunshine?”
“The name is Anna Jones.” She took a cautious sip and gasped to draw breath.
“No, it isn’t.” Van whacked her between the shoulder blades to prevent her from choking. When she could breathe again, he pushed the glass back to her lips, insisting she take another sip. She did, reluctantly. “My friend calls me Van,” he informed her, then chugged his drink.
“Friend?” she questioned then took another dainty sip.
“I just have the one,” he informed her then smiled wryly. “Two, now that the whole town thinks you’re my fiancée. Drink up or I’ll fetch the peace pipe and we’ll do it Indian-style.”
She clamped her lush lips shut defiantly when he tried to force her to take another drink. “You are not going to get me inebriated and take advantage of me, Mr. Crow.”
“Van,” he corrected. “Then start talking. Unless you want to end up on your back in the bedroom and to hell with whatever scheme you’ve hatched by declaring we’ll soon be wed.”
That threat should get her talking, he predicted. Bold as she was, he sensed she didn’t trust him. Smart woman. Van wasn’t sure he trusted himself with the mysterious, alluring woman who had him entertaining all sorts