Free Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe

winter, especially if he couldn't teach her how to survive without him. She was so ridiculously trusting that in April, when he'd been caught in a mountain snowstorm and had to trade whiskey to the Utes for a blanket, she'd wandered into some squaw's tent and nearly lost her hide.
    Tavy, little darling that she was, could be a liability at times.
    He supposed until he decided what to do with her, he'd have to build himself a nice fat bank account at Silver's expense. Either that, or marry the girl.
    He smiled at the notion. Now there was an amusing proposition: a wife with even fewer scruples than he had. He could just imagine the wedding party Satan would throw on their behalf.
    "I'm afraid your situation is more dire than I thought," he told her gravely. "We shall have to march into the fray with all our guns blazing, so to speak. Of course you will be paying for my meals, clothes, and lodging, but in order to turn Celestia's head, I shall also need an allowance. Given our shortage of time, I'm afraid the amount will have to be significant. But your devotion to your father has touched me deeply. In consideration of your plight, I shall see how far I can stretch five hundred dollars per week."
    "Per week?"
    "Yes, of course. You, yourself, have cast me in the role of aristocrat. One cannot play the part on a shovel stiff's wage."
    Her hands flew to her hips. "Now see here, Jones, I'll allow you two hundred dollars, and you'll be happy to have it."
    "Four hundred."
    Their eyes locked.
    "Two-fifty," she countered.
    "Three-fifty plus a horse and buggy."
    She looked like she'd relish the act of barbecuing him. "Three hundred and the promise not to sic the sheriff on your sorry hide."
    "Five hundred and the promise not to mail your father a most eye-opening letter." He smiled pleasantly.
    "Y-you wouldn't dare!"
    "Not for five hundred dollars," he lied soothingly. "After all, you did spare me from spending the night in jail."
    "Your gratitude overwhelms me, Mr. Jones."
    He inclined his head to hide his smirk.
    "If I agree to your terms," she said in grudging tones, "what guarantee do I have that you'll perform the job to satisfaction?"
    "Well..." Really, Silver. You should know better than to lead with a line like that. He rose leisurely. "I could give you my references."
    "If you think I'd take the word of your scalawag of a partner—"
    "Oh, no." He strolled to where she was so charmingly silhouetted by the flicker of gaslights. "Not Fred. Fred would be entirely unsuitable. He doesn't have firsthand knowledge of my performance in these... affairs."
    She straightened her spine. "I'm sure I would think twice before believing the word of any acquaintance of yours, Mr. Jones."
    "Why, then our relationship already shows great promise. I suspected you'd say that very thing. Knowing how one's partner thinks is important in a close-call scenario."
    Silver's mouth grew uncomfortably dry as his voice dropped to a throbbing murmur. She would have liked to say their "scenario" was close enough, but she didn't want to give him that satisfaction. His bawdy innuendos had triggered too many of her old fears. She'd as good as hired the rounder now, so she'd have to get a grip on herself if she was to show him who was boss.
    She fixed him with her best keep-your-distance glare. "None of which answers my original question."
    "You speak truly."
    He halted less than an arm's length away. She could actually feel his heat, smell his mountain-fresh cologne. A tendril of uneasiness coiled in her belly.
    "Perhaps you would prefer a demonstration," he said.
    "A-a demonstration?"
    His hand reached out to catch a strand of hair, one of the prematurely gray ones that had always made her look so old and ugly. When he tucked it behind her ear, she felt the whisper of his knuckles against her cheek. She wanted to die of mortification. Surprisingly, however, the feeling came less from his touch than from her vision of herself as a frightful, windblown mess.
    "Mr.