An Outlaw To Protect Her. Harper St. George

of the sofa and sat down. His arms were spread across the back, taking up nearly the entire length of the piece of furniture. “I’ll make it work, pretty lady.”

      His smile, coupled with the intensity of his gaze on her face, made her wonder if he was making a double entendre. She should’ve been outraged or at least affronted, but she found herself having to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. He’d always teased her, not put off by her confidence or the fact that she was in charge, and, most important, he never made her feel like he was insulting her or disrespecting her. Perhaps that was why she liked his teasing comments and the few times he’d used that nickname for her. They made her feel earthy and real, not the porcelain queen this place sometimes made her out to be because of the role she played.

      Before she could respond, a slim leather-bound book slipped out of his coat pocket to land with a thud on her rug. She recognized it as his sketchbook, as it landed on its spine and fell open. The page was upside down, but it looked to be a drawing of a woman with a very revealing slit in her dress that exposed nearly her entire leg.

      She’d seen him a few times at the bar writing or drawing in it—she’d never been able to get close enough to take a look—but then last week she’d searched his room. She’d been looking for an answer to why he was hiding out at Victoria House, in case the reason put her staff in danger, but instead she’d found that book. Flipping through it, she’d expected to find secret plans about God only knew what, but instead she’d found his drawings. Most of them were of places she assumed he’d been: buildings, farmhouses, desert and mountain landscapes; but some of them had been of women. Very nude women.

      An unreasonable surge of jealousy crept over her as she stared at the woman in the drawing. She wasn’t jealous because he’d obviously been with those women. She was jealous because she could never be one of them. It wasn’t even a question of emotional attachment or her running a brothel and him being an outlaw.

      It was because she was broken. Irrevocably. Her skin prickled hot and then cold at the unwanted reminder of why she could never be with him the way a normal woman could.

      They seemed to come to their senses at the same time and both bent down to retrieve the book. She touched it first, but his larger hand covered hers. Surprised, she looked up and his face was only inches away. She’d never been this close to him. She could count his short black eyelashes and smell the pleasingly faint hint of whiskey on his breath. They were so close she could feel how solid he was just from their proximity.

      “Sorry,” she managed to whisper, drawing her arm back and rising. She meant to make a joke about the drawing, to say something about obscenities not being allowed in her suite, but she couldn’t say anything. When she opened her mouth, absolutely nothing came out except another breath she’d been holding. Deciding to retreat while her dignity was still intact, she inclined her head. “Good night, Mr. Pierce.”

      Whirling away, she left him for the comfort and familiarity of her bedchamber. After she locked her door, she pressed her back against the cool wood. How was she ever going to get through the next few days with Zane being so close? Hopefully Hunter would find the person responsible for the letter very soon.