A Wanted Man Read Online Free Page A

rope?”
    No one moved, as if, in the lull following that eruption of intensity, they couldn’t think clearly enough to understand the question.
    “How about this?” Laura said at last, moving toward the aisle.
    “Laura!”
    “Oh, hush,” she said, brushing past Mrs. Bossidy. She worked at the fastening of the sash wrapped around her waist as she threaded her way through the men crowding the aisle and stepped around the limp body on the floor, resisting the most unladylike urge to give him a swift kick as she passed. Now where had that come from? She’d never suspected she had a violent streak, and Mr. Hoxie would likely be more than happy to mete out a bit more punishment should it become necessary.
    “Here.” She waved the drift of turquoise silk when she reached the end of the aisle, more breathless than the brief walk warranted, even for her. But she’d had an unusual and exciting experience; an accelerated heartbeat should be excused under such circumstances.
    “A scarf?” Keeping the gun in place, the dark stranger sat back a fraction, tilting his head so he could look up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.
    His eyes were dark, so dark. Blacker than midnight, twice as compelling, giving absolutely nothing away. I should have known, she thought. She’d wondered about his eyes, conjured deep sapphire and gray and a warm, rich brown. And now she couldn’t imagine them any other way. No wonder she never did portraits, if she hadn’t pegged the inevitability of that color right off.
    “It’s silk. Very strong. It’ll hold him, don’t worry.”
    His gaze dropped to the swath in her hand, the vibrantly colored fabric rippling because it was so fine that the slightest breeze, even a breath, set it in motion. She held it out to him, waiting.
    “It’s too good to be wasted on the likes of him.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    He lifted his head slowly, as if noting the thick cream silk of her shirtwaist, abundantly trimmed with hand-knotted lace her mother had imported from Brussels, pausing at the wide glint of gold that encircled her wrist and the swing of heavy sapphire drops at her ears. “Rich girl, hmm?” he asked, so mildly it held no sting.
    “Yes,” she admitted, just as mild. Though that knowledge often spawned strong reactions from others, from fawning obsequiousness to acid envy, it was merely a fact of her existence to Laura, holding no more emotion than that her hair was brown or that she was left-handed. She had nothing to do with earning her father’s fortune and minimal control over the use of it. She certainly appreciated its existence, since she understood that it made her life much more comfortable than it otherwise might have been; but that was about it. His wealth made some things much simpler and others far more complicated, an immutable part of her life that she’d long ago decided was best simply to accept and otherwise think about as little as possible.
    His expression lightened: a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the barest lift of his mouth. About as near as he ever got to a smile, she figured, pleased all out of proportion to be the one who drew it.
    His fingers brushed hers. Warm, the rough calluses easily felt through the gossamer fabric, the texture and heat so different from hers that it was hard to believe they were the same thing, just two human hands. Andthen he threaded the scarf from her grasp, a quick glide of gauzy fabric.
    He glanced down at the prone figure on the floor, then back up at her. “You any good at knots?”
    “Not good enough that I want to trust my continued future to it.”
    “Okay, then, here.” He flipped the gun around and thrust the butt into her palm. She took it without thinking. “Don’t shoot me.”
    “I—” Belatedly realizing what he’d given her, she held it as far away from herself as she could manage. The metal was warm against her palm—his heat, she realized, transmitting itself to her. “I might,” she