Dang, the black linen bolero hugged her every curve, emphasizing an exquisite figure. An ivory chemisette edged with tatted lace tucked into the low-necked bodice disguised a nice set of…attributes.

“I believe you are expecting me, Kaira Clarice Renaulde, and I’ll be glad to relay to my Aunt Pee-bid-ee that our ancestors have pronounced their name wrong for centuries.”

“I, uh.” As though seeking help finding an explanation, Quin turned to Monk, who had sidled up beside Miss Renaulde. “Uh, I’d like to introduce you to my assistant, James Humphrey.”

“Much obliged to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” The old gentleman tipped his visor, seemingly not unaware of her attributes. “Call me Monk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Monk. You’re clearly a gentleman.” She smiled sweetly, while casting a suspicious gaze at Quin as though to say, “And, I’ll reserve judgment on you, buster!”

“Uh, Miss. Uh, ma’am.” Blasted! Why was Quin stammering like a young buck signing his first dance card? He’d seen many a beautiful woman. Even courted his share, but never had he known one who just about had sugar and spice oozing from her mouth, while searing him with lavender eyes.

“Mr. Humphrey, don’t you have chores to tend to?” Quin snapped.

“Nope. None that I can think of.” Monk tore his attention away from the black-headed apprentice long enough to catch Quin’s glare. “Yep, for sure, got a bucket of typeface waitin’ on me in the back room.” He detached himself from the lady and meandered toward the storeroom, mumbling, “All this walkin’ sure can make a man poorly.” Over his shoulder, he stole another glimpse of their new associate before closing the door behind him.

“Miss Renaulde. I’m…” Quin stumbled over the words.

“Sorry, maybe? Wish to apologize?” She pulled one then another glove off. “Take your choice.” Slipping out a pin from the headpiece that sported a gigantic feather from some unfortunate bird, she removed her hat and placed it on the counter. Dusting a nearby stool with her hanky, she settled in, making herself comfortable and peering up at Quin.

“Apology?” He groaned, trying hard not to roll his eyes. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. Miss-”

“Kaira Clarice, but K.C. will do fine.” In one wide sweep she seemed to survey every crook and cranny of the tiny room.

“I think Miss Renaulde will be more appropriate.” His voice was harsher than he had intended. Regrouping, he scuffed the toe of his boot along the planked floor.

“Damnation, lady…” He flinched as his curse word caused her to knit her delicate eyebrows together in a shocked expression. “I mean, dern it, ma’am-if we’re going to work together, we need to start over again.” He studied her, waiting for a response.

Slowly, a lethal calmness overtook her features, and she leveled violet eyes at him. The corners of her mouth relaxed in a teasing smile. “Damn glad to meet you, uh, Quinten.”

Chapter 2

Sunset cast a shower of golden dust across Quinten’s bronzed face, as he stood only inches away from Kaira. So close that she could almost feel his breath against her cheeks.

Deep brown eyes, like chocolate left out on a hot, smoldering day, glared at her. Dark lashes beckoned to explore what lay behind them. A scowl tried unsuccessfully to cloak a tad of a smile.

Quinten rolled his broad shoulders, as though tired of carrying the woes of the world on them. Taking a deep breath, his chest expanded, pressing the buttons on the starched white shirt against the black apron.

Kaira tried to pry her gaze away, but his stance emphasized the force of his tough, lean build. Her pulse quickened, and she fought fireflies that suddenly swarmed in her stomach. She tried to swallow.

Never had she met a man who caught her so off guard and created thoughts that no well-bred Bostonian lady of the Pee-bid-ee sort would acknowledge. A man with the heart-throbbing ruggedness of a bronc-buster. A cross between the legendary gentleman-gunslinger, Bat Masterson, and a paramour that Emma Bovary would have taken as a lover, if she existed in the flesh, not in fiction.

And to think mere hours before, her only focus was on teaching her grandfather a lesson for forcing her to come to Texas. Just because she came from a third-generation publishing family didn’t mean that printer’s ink ran in her veins.

Now that she’d seen the hot, dry, unwelcome land of the dreamers and schemers for herself, she found it less alluring than on paper. Kaira wanted nothing of it. She needed to return to Boston and embark upon her dreams…none of which involved the newspaper business.

Kaira peered back at Quinten.

Although she had set out believing she wouldn’t enjoy her assignment, it might be more intriguing than she first thought. She did love a worthy opponent. And Mr. Corbett certainly appeared more than worthy.

What are you thinking, Miss Kaira Clarice Renaulde?

Weariness, exacerbated by the long hours on the train, had to be the blame for her turncoat thoughts. Whiling away the day reading dime novels and daydreaming about the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later cowboys of Texas probably hadn’t helped either.

Her mind felt as fuzzy as a sun-dried dandelion. She tried to pull herself together but faltered. Why did thoughts not fit for a properly reared lady make her feel so warm inside?

Only one problem…He still wore that God-awful scowl.

“I must apologize, Mr. Corbett. My cursing was most intolerable and rude.”

“I was the one who behaved badly. Maybe we should start over.” A gentleman, he waited for her to make the first move.

“Most assuredly.” Without considering the unladylike impulse, she offered her naked hand. “Yes, it does call for a new start.”

Quinten’s fingers touched her with such fire that she inhaled deeply.

“I agree,” he said. As if realizing he was a little too accommodating, Quinten stiffened and stepped back. “It’s late. I’ve got a newspaper to put to press, so I’d suggest that you get a good night’s sleep and report back to me after breakfast in the morning.”

Lost for words, Kaira looked intently at him. Was he not going to at least show her the way to her living quarters? A knot clinched her stomach tightly. He seemed unprepared for her arrival.

Disconcerted, she pointedly looked out the window.

In the west the sun bled onto the prairie, making her painfully aware that little daylight remained, and she had no place to sleep. She gnawed on her lower lip.

“Is there something wrong?” Not waiting for a response, he continued. “You have made arrangements for a room at the hotel or the boardinghouse, haven’t you?”

“No.” She jerked her attention back to Quinten, taking pleasure in the flicker of surprise that made his dark eyebrows slant into a frown.

“We seem to have a misunderstanding,” she stated in her newly acquired unruffled voice. “I have a contract and it expressly states that you will provide accommodations for me.”

“Miss Renaulde, I live in the small room above the shop, and when I agreed to those terms, I didn’t realize, uh-”

“That I am a woman?”

“Yes, clearly.”

“I don’t see that it makes any difference. As you so quickly pointed out…I am here in the capacity of an apprentice, not as a woman. I don’t mind sharing your accommodations.” She lightly fingered a tendril of hair that touched her cheek.

“It’s nothing but a bedroom and barely big enough for one person. I’d made arrangements for the new hire to bunk with Monk at his place.” As though Quin felt uncomfortable discussing her sleeping arrangements, he hesitated before continuing, “And your reputation. A gentleman can’t-”

“Precisely my point. You are a gentleman so my reputation will remain intact.” She motioned toward the door, where three Saratoga trunks and at least a half a dozen hat boxes sat. “Please lead the way. There’s no reason that we cannot be under the same roof and maintain a proper decorum.”

“Ma’am, I can assure you that we cannot function in those cramped quarters.” Quin removed his heavy apron, exposing a mass of chestnut hair peeking out from the neck of his shirt. His muscles rippled under the snug fabric.

Her pulse quickened. “A contract is a contract.” She whipped an envelope from her caba. Opening it, she unfolded a page and handed it to Quinten. “Is this not your signature?”

“Yes. But things are complicated now.”

“Because I’m a woman? Please escort me to my room.” She closed the French handbag, giving the problem another thought. “Never mind, as you’ve pointed out, you have more pressing things that require your attention.”

Having earlier scouted the office, she observed that the room was big enough to get the newspaper out, yet small enough to feel welcome.

She fetched her hat, and with a springy bounce, she crossed the room. At the foot of the stairs, she retorted over her shoulder, adding a deliberate softness to her voice, “In the event you were wondering why I was so late, Mrs. Diggs at the mercantile has a very impressive selection of bonnets, plus she was most interested in the newest fashions being shown in Paris.”

Ascending the staircase leading to his bedroom, she continued, “And the nice waitress at the hotel dining was so very pleasant. Also, Hank Harris said to thank you for helping him out yesterday.” She stopped and turned back to him. “They spoke most favorably of you.”

Damn, she might as well have added, “And, I have no idea why.” Thunder, he expected the owners had sent him an apprentice instead of Miss Dawdle-Butt!

Quin yanked his visor from his head and ran his fingers through his thick crop of hair. Hellfire, it was hard to remain coherent with her around. A sudden twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a long time clutched at his gut. No time to explore his feelings. An edition of the paper was due out by morning and his so-called assistant, apprentice, pain in the rear, or a number of other names he could think of, had dawdled away daylight making social calls.