She kicked him in the knee.
"Goddammit, Alexi, what are you doing here?"
Tall, dark and gifted, Alexi Romanov would command all
eyes wherever he went. He was that pretty. Smooth,
sun–kissed skin, wavy black hair, deep blue eyes and
hands that could make a violin sing or a woman moan. He
could also lie to an angel and cheat the pants off the
Devil himself. He had taught Cat everything she knew.
Cat shoved him. Alexi stayed right where he was,
although he did lift the knife from Cat's neck just a
little, probably afraid she'd skewer herself just for spite.
"Move," she ordered.
"Make me," he countered.
She lifted her knee, fast and sure. He blocked the
attempt to unman him—permanently––with
his hip; then he grasped her waist and yanked them together
in an effort to preserve certain parts he would no doubt
need later. For someone else.
Cat rolled her eyes, pretending boredom. At times, with
him, it was the only weapon she had.
"What," she repeated, voice tired now instead of
angry, "are you doing here?"
""If I let you go, will you shoot me?"
She didn't point out he'd already taken her pistol. She
should have known right then who he was. He'd once taught
her how to disarm any fool who ventured too close with a
gun. Snatch the barrel, while turning to avoid the bullet,
then twist. The element of surprise, and quick hands, had
thus far guaranteed every weapon Cat had tried it on had
become hers.
"If I shot you, Alexi, I wouldn't have a friend left in
this world."
"I'm not your friend." He stepped back.
"I know."
As Alexi moved away he ran one finger along her forearm,
that single touch reminding Cat of a hundred and one nights
in his bed. She'd come to him broken, bleeding inside, and
he'd mended her somehow. Not completely, but enough to go
on. She'd begun touching him back as payment; she'd
stopped touching him for the same reason.
Cat didn't think his name was Alexi, or Romanov for that
matter. But that was the wonder of America. If farm wife
Cathleen Chase could become the legendary bounty hunter Cat
O'Banyon, then an Al could become an Alexi.
Alexi was a confidence man. He crossed the country
lightening the loads—and the pockets—of the
citizens. He insisted he didn't steal and, in truth, Cat
had never seen him take anything that wasn't freely
given––even if what he gave back was often more
mud than magic.
Cat ran her gaze from his dark slouch hat, past the
shoulders that were oddly broader than they had been, down
to his overly dusty boots and understood why she hadn't
recognized him right away. Alexi's talent lay in making
people see whatever he wanted them to.
"You're supposed to be a bounty hunter?" Cat asked, and
her lip curled.
Alexi smirked. His disguise had worked. It always
did. He didn't merely pretend to be someone else; he
became someone else. She'd never seen anything like it.
She was good, but Alexi . . .
Alexi was better.
He lounged against the wall, head tipped so that his hat
again concealed his face. With gloves covering the hands
she knew so well, dirty denims combined with a white cotton
shirt and the scratched grips of some mighty big guns
peeking out of their holster, not to mention the three
day's stubble across his chin . . .
He was a bounty hunter.
"You keep playing around in things you don't
understand," Cat said, "you're gonna get killed."
Alexi snorted. He was right. Though the body beneath
the costume was lithe and slim, it was quick and much
stronger than it appeared. However his body wasn't what
made Alexi dangerous, but rather his clever, clever mind.
Cat eyed him now. He seemed half asleep, but she knew
better. The last time she'd seen Alexi, he'd been asleep.
Naked in her bed as she'd tiptoed out in to the night and
never looked back. Now he was here. That couldn't be good.
"How'd you find me?"
"Mon dieu," he muttered, sounding exactly like a
Frenchman. ""You think no one knows what you're doing?
That a woman can trounce hither and yon, snatching up men
and disappearing with them into the sunset, with no one
noticing at all?"
Cat frowned. "Say what you mean, Alexi." Dear God, just
once, say what you mean.
He came away from the wall with cougar–like speed,
one instant languid and sleepy, the next tense, edgy and so
close he made her tense and edgy too. "A female bounty
hunter attracts attention. But a female bounty hunter no
one can identify . . . " Alexi shrugged. "She becomes a
legend."
Cat shrugged too, though hers wasn't half as
graceful. "So?"
"The problem with legends is that everyone wants a
glimpse of them."
A chill trickled over Cat's neck. She wouldn't put it
past Alexi to capture her and place her in a gilded cage.
"Come one, come all," she murmured. "Step right up and
see Cat O'Banyon in chains."
His beautiful face creased. "I'd never––"
"Of course not," Cat agreed. But she moved closer to
the gun on the bed. She even risked a glance in that
direction.
"Shit," she muttered as her gaze lit on nothing but
sheets. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
Cat didn't even bother to answer. "Why are you here?"
she asked.
He certainly hadn't come for a kiss, amazing as it had
been. Alexi's kisses were always amazing. And they were
always a prelude to getting what he wanted. Cat didn't
think he'd ever kissed anyone for the sake of the kiss
alone. Of course neither did she any more.
Alexi cast a glance toward the window. "We should go."