Lawman by Lisa Plumley Page B

end—just
as he'd been hired to do. His livelihood, and his reputation,
depended on it.
    Winter brings in the right man at the
right time .
    He smiled at her. "I'd rather not be your
enemy, sugar."
    "I'm afraid it's too late for that." She
spurred her horse harder.
    Gabriel followed, frowning in thought. The
way to charm Miss Megan evidently wasn't tied to either flattery or
hints at her sought-after status. Unusual, compared with most of
the ladies he knew. Given what he'd learned of her so far, he
shouldn't have been surprised at that. But it left him at a loss as
to what to try next. A gesture of goodwill?
    They neared the Cosmopolitan, the
two-storied, balconied hotel of adobe and wood where he'd planned
to headquarter both his fellow Pinkerton agents in the field and
his search for the thief he sought. He'd booked a room there while
fresh from the train. It would be simple enough, he reckoned, to
engage an additional room for his prickly feminine guest.
    And simpler still to have her share his.
    Too bad she'd never agree. Shoving that
enticing thought from his mind, Gabriel spied a fruit vendor on the
street corner nearest them, and brought his horse around in that
direction instead. As long as the two of them were the unabashed
enemies she'd claimed, he'd sooner goad her into cold-blooded
murder than he would persuade her into something so warmhearted as
sharing his room.
    Regardless of how much they'd enjoy the
latter.
    With a wry grin for the thought, Gabriel
stopped beside the fruit vendor's wooden cart and examined the
melons, oranges, and lemons piled atop it. With a quizzical look,
his companion stopped, too.
    "And as a matter of fact," he told her, "I
do have one more question for you."
    Bending from his saddle, he exchanged a coin
for one of the man's vibrant oranges. With that accomplished, he
straightened and held the fruit toward Megan. "Would you mind so
very much calling me Gabriel?" he asked softly.
    Her eyebrows raised. In the silence that
fell between them, she looked from the orange in his hand to his
face. Something akin to regret filled her expression.
    "Why?"
    "Why?" Puzzled, he kept his hand extended
toward her. Had she no liking for gifts, either? "Because you say
'agent Winter' as though my name is something you'd like to scrape
from your shoe. I'd rather you call me Gabriel."
    "Oh." She frowned and looked downward,
consumed, for all appearances, with an overriding interest in the
drape of her skirt over her bent knee. Drawing an unsteady breath,
she pleated the folds of fabric in her gloved hands, but made no
move to accept his gift...or to honor his request.
    It seemed she would mind calling him
by his given name.
    Very much.
    Damned stubborn female.
    The awkwardness between them grew, and the
orange in Gabriel's palm felt heavier with each passing moment.
Giving it to her had been a stupid idea in a day filled to brimming
with several just like it.
    Maybe he'd lost his knack for detective
work. Sure as hell, he'd lost his taste for the plain meanness it
often called for. After years of living on the road, days like
this—and obstacles like Megan Kearney—made him long for nothing
more than laying down the life he'd known as an agent and starting
over someplace new.
    But he'd be damned if he'd start over with a
losing record.
    He had to solve this case. The sooner the
better.
    "Perhaps 'agent Go-To-The-Devil' would be
more to your liking then?" Gabriel conjured a smile to hide the
ridiculous feeling of caring what she called him, and how she did
it, at all. He tossed the orange into the air, caught it, and
repeated the motion. "'Course, something a shade less heated might
be more befitting a lady's sensibilities. Agent Chowderhead, agent
Halfwit...am I getting close to something you might agree with,
Miss Kearney?"
    He chanced a look at her. Quickly, she
ducked her head—but the motion couldn't conceal the silly smile on
her face.
    "Miss Kearney?" he prodded. He couldn't have
explained the