IRST OFF, I RECKON THERE’S NO GIRL who’s perfect for me,” Clint Barclay said flatly. He made it sound like a warning, Emily thought, a chill seeping into her chest. “I told you—I’m not the marrying type.”

“So you did,” Emily acknowledged with a cool little nod.

“I’m not even the romantic type,” he added his lip curling, “and sure as hell not the settle-down-by-a-fire-and-show-me-the-knit-booties type.”

His powerful shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Matter of fact, until I took this job in Lonesome I was always on the move—nearly as much as Nick. Neither one of us has ever stayed put in one town for long.”

“So … why Lonesome?” Emily asked sliding back just far enough on the cot so that her back was against the wall. The more distance between them, the better, that’s what she figured.

In the dancing orange flames of the fire, he shrugged again. His bronzed face looked hard and unreadable. And mesmerizing as hell.

“By the time I cleaned out the Duggan gang, I’d grown to like Lonesome and a lot of the folks here. They asked me to stay—offered me a nice pile of money to continue protecting the town, so I did.”

He stepped back, folded his tall frame back down on the chair again, his long legs stretched out before him, and eyed her with cool amusement. “But as for marrying someone, getting stuck in one place forever… hell, no. That’s not for me. I’ll stay in Lonesome for the time being, as long as I’m needed and folks still want me … but that’s the most kind of a promise I’m prepared to make.”

Why is he telling me all this? Emily wondered. He was going to great pains to make his position on marriage, on promises and commitments, unmistakably clear …

She noticed then that he was studying her thoughtfully. “But I reckon that doesn’t really answer your question, does it? The truth is, no one girl would be perfect for me … and sure as hell not one who set her cap for me and chased me around like a dog trying to herd a stray calf.” He gave a snort of laughter, then his gaze rested on her and his eyes gleamed.

He gave her a long, slow look, taking in her still-damp tumbling curls, the blanket draped around her narrow shoulders, the sculptured beauty of her face—studying her with such thoroughness that Emily blushed.

“But if I wanted to find the perfect woman—which I don’t—I reckon she’d have dark hair, Miss Spoon. Dark like the night.”

“Oh … w-would she?”

He grinned, a heartrending grin, and suddenly came off the chair in a smooth easy movement that reminded her of a wildcat coiling to spring. To her consternation, he settled himself beside her on the cot and reached out toward her. His fingers closed over a handful of those loosely falling curls. “Her hair would be thick and heavy, and soft like velvet. The kind of hair a man likes to touch and spread out on the pillow, and breathe in the scent of it.”

He drew his hand slowly, and ever so gently, through the lush strands of her hair. Emily wanted to tell him to stop, but her voice wasn’t working properly and she couldn’t say a word.

“And,” Clint continued, his grin deepening as his gaze flickered over her expressive face, “I’m finding that I’m partial to a woman with gray eyes. They’re unusual. Sort of mysterious. Especially the ones that look bright as silver one minute and soft as a sunrise mist the next.”

He moved almost imperceptibly closer to her, locking his gaze on hers. Emily felt as if she were drowning in the hot blue depths of his glance.

“You … you don’t say,” she managed to murmur in an even tone.

“Yep. And if she happens to be pretty good at shooting snakes and sewing the prettiest dresses this side of the Rockies… now that kind of a girl would be just about irresistible.”

He leaned toward her, his hand closing lightly around her nape and drawing her toward him.

“Is that all?” Emily’s heart was racing, but she had a nonchalant expression pinned to her face.

“Well, if her kisses tasted sweeter than elderberry wine and she had a temper hotter than fire, then—”

“And if she recognizes sweet talk when she hears it and knows it’s all chicken poop and hogwash?”

Emily’s cold tone and contemptuous words stopped him flat, his mouth hovering only a scant inch from hers. She saw his gaze narrow as she jerked back away from him and smacked both of her hands onto his chest to hold him off. Meeting his eyes, her own eyes glittered like polished bullets.

“How much of a fool do you think I am?”

To her surprise, Clint chuckled. “You’re obviously nobody’s fool, Emily—”

“Miss Spoon to you.”

“Miss Spoon,” he said softly, laughter in his eyes. “The fact is, I just thought we might want to pass the time till the storm ends in as pleasant a manner as possible. Like we did last night—on the porch.” He shot her another thunderbolt of a smile and leaned forward, but Emily swallowed hard, then shoved him back.

“When hell freezes,” she retorted with an effort.

“Now, what kind of a way is that to talk?” He feigned a hurt expression. “After I risked my neck in the storm to come out here and rescue you—”

“That’s your job, remember. To help people,” she fired back, her eyes flashing. “Now get away from me before I…I…”

“Yes? Before you what?”

Before I fall into your arms like an addlepated fool, she thought desperately.

“Before I scream!”

“Scream away. We’re not exactly in the center of town,” he pointed out with a grin. “Who’s going to hear?

“Damn you!” she exclaimed, scooting to the far end of the cot.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Clint asked.

She wasn’t at all sure, but suddenly she understood exactly what he wanted. Now she knew what all that talk about never settling down had meant before. This so-called honorable lawman was making sure she didn’t get the wrong idea—that she didn’t mistake his intentions.

Oh, he wouldn’t mind kissing her, touching her, even making love to her here in this ramshackle old shack, just so long as she understood it didn’t mean anything. Just so long as she didn’t expect anything of him, like that he might start to court her, or think about marrying her or fall in love with her.

Fury and sharp bitter pain plunged like a knife through her heart.

What did you expect, she thought through the ache in her chest. Roses and champagne, wedding cake and a golden ring?

Not for Jake Spoon’s niece… not for a girl who’d never set foot in a fancy drawing room like Caitlin Barclay must have known, except to dust it and sweep it…

“It’s a long ways till sunrise,” Clint continued softly, “and so I thought—”

“You thought you’d amuse yourself by flirting with me and … and kissing me.” Emily glared at him. “Because I’m the only woman within fifty miles who isn’t trying to drag you down the aisle to the altar—and never would!”

He had the nerve to grin again. God help her.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “I know for a fact you’d rather jump off a cliff than marry a sheriff. So I’m safe with you. And you’re safe with me. Look at it this way, Emily, no respectable lawman would ever marry into an outlaw family. So …”

“So I asked you to move away from me.”

“And I’m asking you—what’s the harm in us getting to know each other a little better?” Clint eyed her accusingly. “You started it the other night, remember? Maybe sharing one more kiss—possibly two—will settle this… hell, this unfinished business… between us.” His voice grew rough. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But it was a lie. She did feel something—a tug, a pull, an electricity. She’d felt it from the start, but so much more so when his lips had claimed hers.

“I’ll make a deal with you—no strings, no promises, and I won’t tell the rest of your family if you don’t,” Clint added with a husky chuckle that made her tingle.

“Why would I possibly want to kiss you again?” Somehow she managed to sound composed, even disdainful, even though a heated excitement was pulsing through her. “I… I only did it once because John Armstrong was about to recognize me—”

“You did it more than once. I have a hunch you liked it.”

“You arrogant, egotistical—”

“Come here, Emily.”

“Miss—”

“Spoon. I know,” he finished for her, smiling amusedly into her eyes. He edged closer to her, and she suddenly found herself at the top end of the cot, wedged between him and the wall. He was leaning across her, giving her that heart-stoppingly masculine grin, stroking his hand through her hair. “I don’t usually have to beg for kisses.”

“I don’t usually kiss men I don’t even like.”

“That’s just the point,” he said, the gleam in his eyes intensifying. He angled in closer and lowered his head close to hers. Once more their lips were only inches apart. Once more Emily felt her breath catching in her throat.

“I think you do like me. And the hell of it is, I like you. It doesn’t make any sense, but not much does in this world sometimes.”

No, it didn’t make sense. But it was true, Emily thought in wonder. She did like him. How? Why? She wanted to hate him, but instead she found herself being drawn into the charm of a lazy smile, of those keenly beautiful eyes, of a gentleness and a decency she sensed beneath the brawn and the bravery.

“Well.” She took a deep breath, stunned by her own thoughts, by the wild urges spinning through her. “You did rescue me from the storm, so … I’ll grant you one kiss and only one,” she said in a rush. How prim she sounded. Then she just couldn’t stand it any longer. She grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him toward her, placing her lips upon his.

She’d meant it to be a quick kiss, over and done with in a hurry because it made her feel guilty to be doing it at all, but something changed as her mouth touched his and she found herself lost in the kiss, hopelessly, dizzily lost. Her lips clung to his, and the sweetest sensations burst through her, layered by darker, more intriguing ones. And when she at last summoned the will to pull back, Clint Barclay had other ideas and before she knew it, his arms were around her and he was kissing her with a single-minded possessiveness that stirred a primal response deep in her very core. He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough and never wanted to stop, and Emily knew nothing else but that she didn’t want him to …

A moan escaped her lips as a dazzling fire surged through her. She felt dizzy and warm. Maybe she had a fever, Emily thought dazedly. Or maybe she just liked kissing Clint Barclay more than she’d ever liked anything in her entire life …

He shifted position suddenly and the next thing she knew she was yanked down onto the cot and he was sliding his body over hers, and somehow or other he managed not to lift his mouth from hers for an instant.

She didn’t know why but an absurd rush of pleasure swept through her and she actually slid her arms around his neck. Dimly she wondered why she had done that, but then she forgot all about it as Clint’s firm mouth began to search hers even more hungrily and his tongue slipped inside her mouth, igniting a musky fire. Heat, need, desire exploded within her and Emily forgot the storm, forgot the night, forgot everything but the exquisite sensations gliding through her as Clint Barclay’s muscled frame lay upon her, as his hands stroked her face, her throat, and his mouth laid possessive claim to hers. Time fell away, there was only the moment, the bliss, the passion jolting between them, and Emily held him to her with a ferocity she had not known she possessed, her hands sliding down his shoulders, drawing him closer, breathing him in, wanting to somehow absorb all of this dark, gentle lawman into her very soul.

When she thought she would faint from lack of air, he suddenly lifted his head and she stared dazedly into his eyes. “That was … much more … than just one kiss,” she gasped. “You cheated.”

“You liked it.”

Breathlessly she felt herself studying those firm, warm lips as if hypnotized. “Oh,” she murmured, “how could you tell?”

He laughed and she did too. She’d never felt so warm, so close to anyone, so happy, she thought in shock. So kissed.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can tell,” he said and then he was kissing her again. She lost herself in the sweet dark musk of his tongue encircling hers. When Emily felt his hand sliding to the buttons of her shirt she knew that she should stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Just a little more … see what happens, she thought, and then wonderful sensations filled her as he slipped his hand inside her shirt and found her breast.

This definitely went far beyond one small kiss, but it felt so good Emily gasped. No, it felt better than good. It felt delicious and exciting, and a throbbing heat swept through her every place his hands touched, every place his magnificent body touched hers.

Emily forgot then to think how it felt because she couldn’t think—not at all. Because Clint Barclay was stealing her breath, scorching her lips, and stroking her nipple back and forth with his thumb until the world became a warm blurred place, a place of achingly sweet pleasure teetering on the brink of torment.

She heard thunder—or was that her heart? She saw his lean, handsome face close to hers and touched it with wondering hands even as their lips caught fire. His body shifted over hers on the cot, and every single one of his muscles seemed to engulf her soft flesh—then she was lost once more in aching need and a tight, hungry ache settled in her very core. Moaning, she dragged her fingers through the thick silk of his hair, then they found the buttons of his shirt. But as he shifted to make it easier for her to unfasten them, his leg brushed against hers and she cried out in pain.

“What’s wrong?” He lifted his mouth from those petal-sweet lips of hers with an effort and saw that her glorious eyes were wide upon his.

“It’s my ankle,” she gasped. “It’s hurting …”

Clint swore silently to himself—damn, he’d forgotten about her ankle. He should have gotten that boot off right from the start.

He rolled away from her and leaned back, aware of the hot desire still pumping through him, the urges searing his blood. Hell, she tasted good. And she felt good, soft and curvy and giving in all the right places. Her lush body was just as hot and passionate as her temper, and the sensuous tumble of midnight hair around that delicate face was driving him wild.

He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair as Emily, her shirt tantalizingly unbuttoned, struggled to a sitting position.

“Sorry.” Clint moved off the cot and took careful hold of his self-control, then focused his attention on her damned boot.

“I’ll try to do this fast and gentle,” he warned, “but if your ankle’s swelled up, we might have to cut the boot off.”

“Go … ahead.” Emily’s shoulders were trembling. But not only from the fresh pain shooting through her foot. From everything she’d just felt lying on that cot with Clint Barclay, his kisses drawing her into him in a way she’d never experienced before, his hands roaming all over her body, exploring places no man had ever touched.

Her heart was still racing in her chest. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. If she’d thought Clint Barclay was a dangerous man that first night he’d sprung out at her at the ranch, she now knew just how dangerous he really was.

Thank heavens for the pain, thank heavens he’d bumped his foot against hers. Thank heavens something had broken the crazy spell he’d cast over her before things went any further.

Clint was holding firmly to her boot. His hair was mussed, his shirt partly opened where her fingers had torn at the buttons. She found herself forgetting about the pain in her ankle, staring at his powerful, dark-furred chest.

Now she knew what those muscles felt like beneath her fingertips. She was shocked by how much she wanted to stroke them again.

“Ready?” Clint began to slide her boot off, but as Emily flinched and let out a smothered cry of pain, he froze, frowning.

Her previously flushed face had gone white. Clint reached into his pocket, yanked his knife from its sheath.

“I’ll have to cut the boot.”

“Go ahead… but please, do it quickly,” she managed to mutter as circles of pain emanated up from her ankle. But the pain was good, it was distracting her from staring at this impossibly handsome sheriff who had convinced her to lie on a cot with him in a line shack miles from anyone and play with fire.

“Just… get the boot off,” she whispered, her voice thin with pain.

He worked quickly and efficiently at the leather, but even so, by the time he was finished Emily was clenching her hands and biting her lip and she was whiter than a lily.

“Th-thank you. I think,” she gasped.

Next Clint gingerly removed her stocking and frowned down at her swollen ankle.

“You need some whiskey.”

“Trying to get me drunk now?” Emily struggled for a light tone. “No wonder my uncle taught me never to trust a lawman.”

He shot her the briefest flash of a smile.

“Just like I don’t usually have to beg for kisses, Miss Spoon, I don’t usually have to get women drunk.” He tugged off the other boot and the stocking, and she settled both legs carefully onto the cot once more.

Clint tried not to stare at the glimpse of shapely legs visible beneath the folds of her riding skirt. He forced himself to head to his saddle pack and dig out his whiskey flask.

“This ought to take care of the pain.”

Emily didn’t argue, for now that her ankle was free of the boot’s tight confines it was throbbing even more. The whiskey burned her throat going down, but she drank deeply before handing him back the flask.

Clint lifted it and took a good hearty gulp himself. Being around her would turn any man to drink, he thought. Why in hell do I care so much that she’s in pain? And why in hell does she have to be so damn beautiful? Not to mention sexier than any woman he’d ever seen. Even her slender little toes were sexy, he decided in irritation. But it wasn’t her toes that captured his attention just now. She’d forgotten to fasten up her shirt, and it draped open still, revealing the white lace of a chemise that barely covered the creamy mounds of her breasts. He resisted the urge to reach out and remove that damned shirt—and the chemise too. Their little kissing interlude was definitely over, he reminded himself tautly. The trouble was, he’d enjoyed it even more than he’d thought he would.

Maybe you enjoyed it too much, he told himself, alarm suddenly surging through him. If her ankle hadn’t started to hurt, they both might have ended up in far deeper trouble than either of them had bargained for.

Staring into her lovely face, meeting those vivid silver eyes as they regarded him warily, he reminded himself sternly that she was Jed Spoon’s niece.

Yet confusion twisted through his gut.

Wasn’t that the point? She was Spoon’s niece—a woman he’d never marry—a woman who’d never in a hundred years want to marry him. An ineligible woman, maybe the only unmarried female in town who wasn’t trying to figure out how to throw a rope around him. It had seemed so easy, so natural—the idea of exploring that intangible something between them—without her getting the wrong idea.

That’s all he’d had in mind. A pleasurable romp, a night of plain old-fashioned roll-in-the-hay passion with the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met—and no strings attached.

But kissing her had stirred something in him, something deeper than he’d expected. Something that scared him.

Scared him? Why the hell should a woman, any woman, scare him?

Maybe because of the quiet way she’d listened to his story about Nick, his parents. Maybe because of the simple compassion he’d seen in her eyes. She touched something in him, something that went beyond physical attraction. Beyond lust. There was much more to Emily Spoon than a magnificent figure and a beautiful face. There was a spirit, a soul, a courage he’d sensed from the very start.

Clint didn’t like feeling this way—uncertain, out of control. He always knew what he wanted, how to get it. He always knew. Especially where women were concerned.

But not this time.

It’s time to back off, he decided warily. She’s no damned good for you.

He had to step back, put some distance between them.

“You should try to get some shut-eye,” he told her curtly, shoving the flask into his pocket. “The whiskey ought to help.”

Emily watched the frown settle across his face, and she saw the exact moment when the coldness entered his eyes. Dismay and an odd loneliness filled her. All the warmth and humor of the man who had poured her coffee and stroked her hair and kissed the daylights out of her on the cot were gone. The cool and in-control lawman was back.

A different kind of pain shot through her. “Good. When I wake up, we can get out of here.” She tried to sound as matter-of-fact as he. “In the meantime, you can put your bedroll there.”

She pointed to the far corner, near the hearth.

He gave her a long look. “Fine. That’ll be just fine.”

Suddenly she realized that her shirt was still unbuttoned. Her cheeks burned and her eyes flew to his face. “Do you mind?” she demanded as she fumbled awkwardly with the buttons.

He shrugged, turned away. “Just thought you might need help.”

“The last thing I need is any more help from you.” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended. But tension still simmered between them, despite his frown, his shuttered eyes.

As lightning crackled and the rain continued, she watched him spread his bedroll and take one more quick tip of the flask. She lay down on the cot, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and tried not to think about anything—about the pain throbbing through her ankle, the storm thrashing outside, or the man settling himself down for the night not ten feet away from her.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Clint Barclay. About the way he made her feel or the things he made her want.

Spending any more time alone with him, Emily decided, hugging the blanket to her, was not a good idea.

And sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.