Free The Fall of Rome by Beth Ciotta Page B

Bulls-Eye Brady, a man who’d robbed countless stages and trains and who killed without conscience, would be a personal and professional pleasure. It wasn’t wholly because the rat had seduced Kat--though that figured in heavily--but more that he and Boston had failed to apprehend Brady the two times Wells Fargo had assigned them the task. Rarely had they failed to get their man. Rarely had Rome been so motivated to set things right.
    Whatever it takes.
    If nothing else, he and Kat shared a common motto and goal.
    “Dammit!”
    Rome looked from the desert vista to a copse of trees. He knew that voice, though it surprised him she was up and out so early. He pushed off the boulder, peered around the sprawling branches of a mesquite, and saw a conservatively dressed Kat bending over to free her skirt from the pointy spines of a barrel cactus. Her shiny curls bounced around her head like a chestnut halo. Thick locks that once reached her waist now flirted with her shoulder blades. He wondered when and why she’d cut her hair. If she’d meant to heighten her seductive aura, she’d succeeded. Once a she-devil. Now an angelic she-devil. Christ.
    He crushed out the smoldering cheroot and moved in.
    Startled by his presence, she jerked and winced. “Dammit, Rome!”
    “Prick yourself?”
    “Thanks to you.” She squeezed her forefinger and frowned. “I thought you begged off coming to a lady’s aid.”
    “Some habits are harder to break than others.” He gestured to her wound. “Let me see.” When she didn’t comply, he took charge. As soon as their hands connected, he felt a surge of lust. He imagined suckling her finger, kissing away the hurt. He imagined flicking his tongue over her palm, her wrist. He envisioned an array of erotic images, all of which he’d performed in the past, but instead, produced a bandana from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound. It was then that he noticed her skin wasn’t as soft as it used to be. He smoothed his thumb over a rough patch. She hadn’t earned those calluses dealing cards.
    She jerked back her hand as if privy to his thoughts.
    He sensed a query wouldn’t be welcome so, for now, he let it go. Pensive, he stooped to free her skirt from the spiny cactus.
    “I could’ve done that.”
    “You’re welcome.” He straightened and met a pair of contrite brown eyes.
    “I just... I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone,” she said in a less hostile tone. “You of all people. Unless you’ve been up all night.”
    “Slept fine. Woke early. You?”
    “Same. Thought I’d take a walk. Mull over last night’s talk in preparation for the impending charade.” She lifted a brow. “You?”
    “Same.” More or less.
    “You’re staring.”
    “I know.” He was hypnotized by her face much as he was by the sunrise. Rarely had he seen Kat without face paint. This morning her face was scrubbed fresh. She was twenty-four now, yet she looked younger than when he’d first met her at eighteen. How the hell was that possible? On second thought, it wasn’t about youth, but innocence. She looked wholesome, vulnerable . He was particularly smitten with the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Smitten and curious. “You used to be meticulous about shielding your skin from the sun.”
    “If you’re wondering how I’m going to attract Brady looking like this, you can stop fretting. When it matters, I’ll slick up and dress to the nines.”
    He stuffed down a surge of jealousy, hoping to strike up an illuminating discussion. “I wasn’t criticizing your appearance, Kat.”
    “No?”
    “No. Just wondering what would tempt a night owl like you into spending time in the sun, unprotected no less. As I recall, you owned numerous bonnets and parasols.”
    “I was obsessed with maintaining a pale complexion. A sign of sophistication and gentility, as you know.”
    “And now?”
    “I’m no longer obsessed.”
    “Guess that extends to high fashion.” He gestured to her