"Christ!" Killian jerked out of his seat and lurched toward her, dropping to his knees at her shoulder. She lay sprawled on the cold, dirty floor, her face pressed against the wood, her arms motionless at her sides.
She was out cold.
He sighed and sat back on his heels. Tossing his hat onto the bed, he shoved a hand through his dirty hair.
What in the hell was he supposed to do with her?
Everything about the woman mystified him. She was unlike any female he'd ever met: sharp-tongued, opinionated, even crude. She didn't seem to care about anyone or anything?not even herself.
It was a detachment he understood all too well. He'd lived like that for years.
He surged to his feet and backed away from the woman lying on his floor. He didn't want to understand anything about her. All he wanted were answers, then he could send her on her way.
Spinning on his heel, he crossed the tiny cabin and yanked a bottle of whiskey from the overturned soup crate that held his provisions. He took the cork in his teeth and pulled it out, spitting it into the darkness of the corner, then took a long, satisfying drink. The booze burned a trail down his throat and warmed his insides.
Reluctantly he looked at the woman. Alaina, she'd called herself. Alaina Costanza.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and reached for
104
the lantern, curling his fingers around its cold metal handle. Lifting it, he brought the light to the woman and kneeled once again beside her.
Even in sleep, there was a sadness to her features. Her eyes were closed, her lashes sealed in a jet black half-moon against her skin, but he could visualize their gray-green depths. They held a dozen secrets, those eyes, each of them dark and disturbing. In her eyes was a look he knew all too well?the look of someone who'd seen the underbelly of life and walked away, but never escaped.
A strange tingle traced his fingertips, and he realized that he wanted to touch her. He clenched his hand into a fist, surprised by his response to her. He hadn't wanted a woman in years.
And yet, he was drawn to her in some indefinable way. He wanted to feel the soft arch of her throat, trace the full lips that even in sleep held a downward curve of sorrow. He felt?insanely?that the sadness didn't belong there, that he'd seen her once without it.
"Who are you, Alaina Costanza?" he whispered, hearing the tired harshness in his voice.
At the sound of his voice, she moved slightly, let out a sigh that somehow stirred his heart. It was a quiet, squeaking sound that started an ache of loneliness in Killian's exhausted soul.
It didn't make a lick of sense.
He eased away from her, shaking his head. Hell, he didn't want it to make any sense. He didn't want to have a reaction to her at all.
He slid his arms underneath her body and scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. She curled immediately in a self-protective ball on the gunmetal gray woolen blanket. The sagging, half-empty pillow looked harsh and dirty against her pale skin.
105 she whis-
A tiny smile pulled at her lips. "John . pered, his name tangled in a sleepy sigh.
Killian stood rooted to the spot, more afraid at that moment than he'd ever been in his life.
This woman would kill him. He knew it suddenly, in the way of a gunman who is facing a better shot. She would kill him.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Chapter Nine
f
Killian sat on the edge of the bed. The sagging leather thongs beneath the mattress creaked at his weight. He eased off his boots and tossed them into the darkened corner, where they landed wit
h a thwack. His hat and shirt were the next to go. He unbuttoned the rough cotton shirt and tossed it toward his boots. It sailed through the air like a dirty surrender flag and landed in a heap atop his boots. Then he took off his jeans.
Slowly, reluctantly, he stood. Cold seeped through the floorboards and invaded his woolen stockings. He shivered as the night air caressed his bare chest.