Free Stronger Than Passion by Sharron Gayle Beach

rough. “Don’t be melodramatic. If I wanted you dead, I’d use my gun.” She didn’t see it anymore; he must have left it outside, or given it to the other man. But that was cold comfort when she looked at his dark killer’s face. “This is something to make you sleep, if you take enough, and I’ve drunk it before myself - how else do you suppose I’ve hidden the fact that I was shot last week, and still hurt like hell?”
    He was scowling at her, lines running across his high brow and deepening around his tight-pressed mouth. His eyes scanned her face in the half-light; and he must have read something unpleasant there, because he cursed.
    “Damn you, Christina - you are going to drink this, because asleep you’ll be a hell of lot easier to manage.”
    Before she could scream her outrage, he had moved onto the seat beside her and laid cold hands on her bare shoulders. She felt the pearls at last slipping loose from her hair as her head was ruthlessly pushed back; tasted the bitter edge of the flask as it was thrust against her lips, and liquid spilled into her mouth.
    “Easy, Señora; drink, and don’t waste a drop. I want some, too.”
    His hand was in her hair now as he held her head back, and she had no choice but to swallow or choke. Her eyes were slammed shut, but still two hot tears of frustration leaked out. She hated him, and she hated herself for ever saving his life. Why hadn’t she let him die? Why had he lived to treat her so?
    Finally, he released her, and her head fell onto the cushioned backrest. She hadn’t the strength or the will to look up at him, but she did, not surprised to see that he was seated again and finishing the remainder of the foul-tasting drug. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. Then he actually smiled at her.
    “Why not stretch out and make yourself comfortable? You’ll be asleep a long time. I’ll even help you undress.”
    She jerked the drooping string of pearls out of her hair and threw it at him. It struck his face and broke, the pearls rolling everywhere. She glared at him, both satisfied and appalled at this small show of violence.
    His eyes narrowed, and his tone seemed thoughtful as well as nasty. “You’d better watch that temper, Señora . . . or I’ll have to discipline you, the same way I did before.”
    Afraid now - not wanting him to touch her again - she stared back in wide-eyed negation.
    “Miguel.”
    The name was called softly from outside. Brett’s gaze shifted away from her into the darkness through the open door. “Come in, hermano,” he said. “You should meet our guest.”
    There was a question in the climbing eyebrows of the strong face that presented itself inside the diligence, but Christina didn’t see it. She only knew this must be the Indian who’d interrogated her servant; this must be the man who’d been looking for her prisoner. And who had undoubtedly found him.
    His eyes were as black as his hair. As they fell on her, their expression was quizzical. But she read no other emotion in his red-bronzed face with its vaguely European bone structure.
    “Chrissie, this is Julian Torrance, friend and relation. Julian, permit me to make known to you the Señora de Sainz, or Chrissie, for short.” Michael grinned through this flippant introduction as though secretly amused at their meeting, as he doubtlessly was. How he had lied to her, despite her kindness in nursing him back to health!
    The Indian, or half-Indian, made her a correct bow as he leaned through the doorway. His gaze remained impassive. But it deepened to something else as he glanced at Michael. “Don’t you think we should be moving on, amigo? Just in case your - guest - has been missed?”
    “Please, gentlemen, do take your time,” Christina said sweetly, hands reaching up to smooth her disarrayed hair. Her insouciance, a product of desperation, earned her a calculating frown from Brett and another inscrutable glance from the Indian.
    Suddenly her hands were