The Angel and the Outlaw Read Online Free PDF Page B

down.”
    It was an order, spoken in a tone that demanded obedience.
    Walking on legs that felt stiff, she crossed the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap so he couldn’t see them trembling.
    J.T. let out a long, aggrieved sigh. Damn. She really thought he was going to attack her. Not that the idea didn’t have a certain appeal, but even he hadn’t sunk that low. Not yet.
    Muttering an oath, he propped the rifle against the wall, then untied the sash at her waist.
    “What are you going to do?” Brandy exclaimed.
    “Not what you’re thinking.”
    She stared up at him, felt the blood drain from her face as he grabbed her hands and quickly tied them together. Then, using the loose end of the sash, he bound her hands to the headboard.
    “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
    “Don’t what?”
    She couldn’t say the words, only looked up at him in mute appeal.
    “Shit, lady, I told you before, I’m not gonna hurt you, so just calm down.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    J.T. shook his head, wishing he’d left her in Cedar Ridge where she belonged.
    “Believe whatever you want,” he muttered, and taking up the pitcher, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
    Brandy stared after him, her heart pounding a mile a minute. Knowing it was futile, she struggled against the binding on her wrists, but it only made the knots tighter. Resigned, she sat with her shoulder against the headboard, her gaze fixed on the door.
    No more than five minutes passed before he returned, the pitcher filled with hot water, two dingy white bath towels draped over his shoulder.
    He locked the door, tossed the towels on the highboy, and poured the water in the bowl.
    “I’m gonna wash off some of this trail dust,” he remarked. “You can close your eyes, or watch, whichever way your stick floats.”
    Brandy stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment as he shrugged out of his shirt and began to remove his boots.
    With a gasp, she closed her eyes, felt a tide of embarrassment wash into her cheeks when she heard his easy laughter.
    She sat there, fuming, listening to the sound of the water splashing against the bowl, her imagination conjuring up numerous images of white cloth moving over taut, sun-bronzed skin.
    Ashamed and angry, she clenched her hands into tight fists, and tried to concentrate instead on how much she hated him. But try as she might, she couldn’t block the sounds of the washcloth being dipped into the bowl, couldn’t help a tiny, wicked part of her mind from wondering if he had removed his trousers as well as his shirt. She took one quick peek, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of his broad bare back, narrow waist, firm buttocks and long, long legs.
    Afraid he’d turn around and catch her staring, she quickly closed her eyes again, her nimble imagination working overtime as she tried to picture what his chest looked like. Was he as hairy as her father, or did he have just a sprinkling of dark hair, like Eddie Crow Killer?
    “You can open your eyes now.” There was no mistaking the blatant amusement in his voice.
    Brandy opened her eyes to find him standing beside the bed, fully dressed.
    He nodded toward the bowl. “You want to wash up?”
    Brandy nodded. The idea of using his dirty water was slightly repugnant, but it was better than nothing. She was surprised when he left the room, returning with a fresh pitcher of water.
    Wordlessly, he untied her hands, then sank down on the bed, his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest.
    “You’re not… Aren’t you? I mean, you can’t stay here.”
    “I won’t look.”
    She gave him a glance that could have curdled fresh cream.
    He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I won’t peek any more than you did.”
    “I didn’t!” she exclaimed, but the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks betrayed her.
    With a sigh, J.T. rolled out of bed, grabbed the rifle, and headed for the