You're an idiot, Killian. He backed away from her, away from those damn eyes that held both vulnerability and violence. "I won't tie your hands as long as you
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keep up. But if you lag for a second, I'm gonna change my mind."
Her breath exhaled in a sharp gust. She laughed. It was a brittle, forced sound. "A second? Not very chivalrous of you."
"And another thing ..."
"Yeah?"
"If you talk . . . I'm gonna gag you."
"Oh, yeah?" She stared up at him, lifted one thick black eyebrow. The strand of vulnerability in her gaze snapped, left behind a coolness that made Killian wonder if he'd imagined her moment of weakness. "You know, Killian, I just made up my mind about something."
"What's that?"
"I'm going to kill you earlier in the book. You're a real jerk."
He sighed. She was back to being crazy. "Get on the damn horse."
He watched her walk over to the roan and climb into the saddle. Reaching forward, she plucked up the reins and drew them into her lap. Then she turned slightly and looked down at him. "Don't run, okay?" The request came out slowly, reluctantly, as if she hated to ask him for something. "I only rode a few times in Girl Scout camp. I'm no John Wayne."
"Don't run?" He echoed the ridiculous request. "This is a getaway." He strode to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. Leaning sideways, he grabbed hold of her reins and wound them around his saddle horn, drawing her mount close. "Hold on to the saddle horn." Before she could mouth off anymore, he kicked his horse hard and they were off, galloping across the empty, endless desert in a cloud of dust.
He heard her scream, saw her scramble to get situ-
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ated. Her fingers curled around the leather horn in a death grip, her back hunched forward, her feet flailing in the stirrups.
There was a moment of blessed silence, and then came the curses. She muttered them at first, angry, unladylike words. Gradually she built up steam, until, after ten minutes of riding, she was shouting expletives at the top of her lungs.
He'd been a fool not to gag her.
"Shit," he shouted.
Lainie cast a disgusted look at the man beside her. He was leaning over in his saddle, staring at the ground. His craggy, beard-stubbled face was drawn into an ominous frown, almost frightening in its intensity.
But she wasn't afraid. Hell, no, she wasn't afraid. He might be physically imposing, even threatening, but it didn't matter. He wasn't real. His gun wasn't real, his bullets weren't real, his threat wasn't real. In ten minutes she was going to wake up and this whole experience would be transferred to a few pages of honest emotion in her book. It was one good thing about this dream. Before, when she was writing, she'd thought of Killian as a one-dimensional outlaw with a cold heart. A villain whose sole purpose was to make the hero appear stronger, smarter, quicker. Now, she saw Killian in a whole new light.
He was a real asshole.
But he didn't tie her hands.
In that instant she'd seen a spark of compassion that was completely unexpected, a character trait she hadn't given him. She knew there was no understanding in John Killian. There was only violence and selfishness and self-reliance. She ought to know.
And yet, there'd been no mistaking the compassion
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she saw in his eyes. For a second?just a heartbeat? he'd seemed like someone else entirely, someone she didn't know at all.
"That's impossible," she hissed, bouncing hard on the leather seat. "He's exactly who you created. What else could he be?"
He reined his horse to a walk. Then he leaned over again, and stared down at the rust-colored dirt.
Lainie's mount immediately slowed. She clung to the saddle horn, teeth rattling in her head, as her horse's gait melted into a bone-jarring trot.