He turned slowly, sparing the open palm a brief glance before concentrating on pouring himself another drink. That was progress, she though. At least now he was looking at her.
Drinking half the liquor, his gaze captured hers from over the rim of the glass. “Convince me of what?”
“Of fighting the Swedes on Saturday,” she replied frankly, dropping her hand to her side. Her offer of friendship had been flatly refused. She resorted to bluntness, deciding intuitively it would be the best course of action when it came to handling a man like Drake Frazier.
Drake looked at Hope as though she were insane. Frowning, he tossed down the rest of his drink like it was water. “Why the hell would I do a thing like that?”
“Because I am willing to pay you generously for your—er—time.”
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but in some vague, indefinable way, his manner toward her had changed. She wasn’t sure what had brought the change about, or why, but it was definitely there. His guard dropped, his previous suspicion of her melted like snow under a hot sun once he discovered her reason for sneaking into his room. Or was the change only a trick of her imagination? She wasn’t sure.
One blond eyebrow cocked as Frazier regarded her with a lazy smile. “How much?”
“Fifty dollars,” she said, trying to hide her disgust for a man who could be bought so easily. Frazier only chuckled and turned back to the window. So much for being easily bought, she thought. “Seventy-five?” he seemed not to hear her. “All right,” she sighed, taking a long deep breath, “one hundred. But that’s my final offer.”
“Then take your money and buy someone else to fight in your pal’s place. I’m not interested.”
Her jaw hardened. “What do you mean you’re not interested? I just offered you—”
“Less than I could make in one hand of poker,” he cut her short. “What else have you got?”
“Else?” God, but she hated the way her voice squeaked that way. Get a grip, Hope. Luke’s life depends on it! “What—” She stammered, clearing her throat. “What do you mean?”
He pulled his gaze from the window and let it trail slowly down her body. He assessed her in much the same way a man would contemplate a horse he was thinking of buying off the block. At any minute she expected him to ask her to open her mouth so he could inspect her teeth, or—swallowed hard—worse.
“I mean,” he said as his gaze ascended at a more leisurely rate, “that you’ll have to sweeten the pot substantially if you want me to even consider it.”
Scowling, she leaned back against the door. Her whole body felt weak. “I can’t,” she said flatly, her fingers nervously picking at the coarse wool of her cloak, plucking off an imaginary speck of lint. “It’s all we have.”
“We?” he asked, his voice a soft, sweet caress. Again she felt his suspicion perk. “Who, exactly, is we?”
Why had the timbre of his voice suddenly changed from harsh and demanding to calm and cajoling? And did it matter? She had a feeling that, yes, it did matter. Everything about this man mattered a great deal. She just wasn’t sure why.
She sucked in a deep breath. “My father, my brother, and myself.” She purposely made no mention of the rest of their little entourage. It would only complicate matters and warrant a fuller explanation. “We spent most of our savings on supplies. One hundred dollars is all we have left.”
Drake nodded as he refilled his glass, then pushed himself away from the window. He approached her slowly, the way a leopard would its prey, and, to Hope’s surprise, he offered the glass to her. She looked at the offering suspiciously, but made no move to take it.
“Go ahead,” he insisted, pushing it into her suddenly limp hand. “I liked you better when you were drunk. You made more sense.”
She sent him a nasty glare. She had no choice but to accept the glass, but she did have a choice about drinking the foul-smelling contents. She took a small sip, only to be polite. Drunk was the last thing she needed to be right now. Instinct told Hope she was going to need all her senses intact to match wits with this fellow.
But was matching wits all Drake Frazier had in mind? she wondered as he lifted the bottle in a silent toast. T
hat thought alone was powerful enough to spur her into taking another drink, this one longer, as she watched him raise the neck of the bottle to his lips. Unlike the whiskey, the gin tasted bitter as it cut a path down her throat. The two did not mix well in her stomach. Still, there was no denying the nice, warm, tingling after-effects. If nothing else, the liquor would help loosen her tongue.
“What if I said I didn’t want your money?” he asked, as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then set the bottle on the floor. “What if I said I wanted something else?”
“What else is there?” she countered with mock innocence. Her index finger trailed a nervous path around the rim of the glass. Knowing his lips had just touched the same smooth surface only seconds before did nothing to ease her tension.
A crooked smile played over his lips as his gaze resumed its bold exploration of her body. “Take a guess.”
The insinuation was clear enough, and she could feel the hint of a blush kissing her cheeks. Her skin felt as though his fingers were trailing hotly over her flesh instead of just his gaze. That the feeling should have bothered her, and didn’t, was more than a little unnerving.
“Money is the only thing being offered here, gunslinger,” she said, deciding it might be better to take her business elsewhere. With one hundred dollars, maybe she could buy someone else to fight in her brother’s place. Not likely, but possible.
She pushed the half-empty glass at his chest. Her head, a little lighter for the gin, was filled with every intention of leaving.
It had been a mistake, offering him back the glass, but one she didn’t realize until it was too late. His thick fingers wrapped around her hand as he reached for it, capturing the hand to his chest, glass and all. The touch was warm, electrifying. It shot through her body with an intensity she would never have thought possible. She tried to pull back, mentally as well as physically, from the feel of his warm skin beneath her knuckles, but his grip held fast. The pelt of curling hair on his chest, something she had been trying desperately to ignore, tickled the back of her hand. The sensations the touch aroused in her were shocking, exciting, and better left unexplored.