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A squat, barrel-chested man pointed two pearl-handled six-shooters at her. She recognized him instantly. Dark, squinty eyes peered out at her from a mass of leathery, wrinkled skin. "I'm talkin' to you," he growled.
Lainie stared at him, surprised in spite of herself at how mean he looked. "Don't mind me, Mose. I'm just watching."
The man in the center of the room spun around. His looming shadow cut across the black and white marble floor, huge and menacing. He was tall, probably six-four, and broad-shouldered, wearing a long, dirty brown duster, black woolen trousers, rough white cotton shirt, and a ragged vest. Scarred chaps hung low on his narrow hips, brushed the dusty leather of his boots. Two pistols hung in the holsters at his sides; their copper bullets studded his wide black gun belt.
A black Stetson was pulled low on his forehead. Beneath the brim, his hair was a wild fringe of silver gray that hung in waves to his shoulder blades. A dusty red mask concealed the lower half of his face, but it didn't matter. Lainie would have recognized him anywhere. His eyes weren't the kind a woman forgot?especially if she'd invented them. They were brown and deep-set,
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framed by thick, winged black brows, and cold. Colder somehow than she'd expected.
"How did you get in here?" he said in a deep, rolling voice that hinted of Scotland.
Lainie shrugged and grinned, as if to say, Shit happens. "Skeeter's not the best lookout."
Above the mask, his eyes narrowed. He took a step toward her, the rifle held negligently in his arms. "How do you know about Skeeter?"
She stared, admiring her handiwork. Damn, he was a good-looking man. Handsome, square-jawed, rugged. A thousand dark secrets lurked in his eyes; danger clung to him like a shroud. All he needed now was a Harley-Davidson.
He strode across the lobby, his duster flapping against his legs as he walked. When he reached her, he yanked her toward him. She stumbled against his chest and hit so hard that for a second she couldn't breathe. Her head snapped back. She stared up into his face, seeing all the hard lines and deep furrows that betrayed the harshness of the past she'd invented for him. "Lay down."
She glanced at the cold, dirty floor. "I don't think so."
He stared, unblinking. One eyebrow cocked slowly upward. His hold tightened, almost lifted her off her feet. "This is a bad time to think, lady. Now, get on the goddamn floor."
"Enough is enough." She tried to wrench her arm free, but couldn't. "Look, John?" she said in as reasonable a voice as she could manage.
A muffled sound came through his mask. It sounded like a sharply indrawn breath. He squeezed her arm more tightly and yanked her toward him. "What did you call me?"
Lainie felt a sense of apprehension that was ridiculous.
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This was just a dream. He couldn't actually hurt her. "John. It's your name, isn't it?"
He pulled her close and stared down at her through cold eyes. "How did you know that?"
Lainie remembered suddenly that no one knew Killian's first name. He was a legend among outlaws, a man without a history or a past. He was simply Killian.
She cursed her own stupidity. Whatever happened to dreaming you were gifted and godlike instead of stupid and mouthy?
Lainie's heart beat faster, her breathing quickened. God help her, even though she knew this was a dream, she felt a flicker of fear. She knew Killian, knew him inside and out. She'd created him, fashioned him from the cold darkness in her own soul. He was everything that terrified her in a man. Everything she hated about herself.
She fought the idiotic feeling of fear. This was just a dream, after all, and one that had to follow her plot. She might feel danger, but it wasn't real. Any second now she was going to wake up in the safety of her own bedroom. The realization calmed her, gave her immeasurable strength. She didn't have to take any crap from this Neanderthal he-man. Without her, he didn't exist.
Her sense of control returned. She was the creator here, the one with the power. He was nothing more than words on a computer screen. "You don't scare me."
His eyes narrowed. A tiny pulse beat in his taut jaw. "Then you ain't real bright, lady."
"Shoot her, boss," Mose growled. "We don't got all goddamn day."
Killian cocked his head toward the teller. "Get the money, Purty."
Purty dove for the bags of money and clutched them to his scrawny chest, backing out slowly.
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Mose cocked both guns and followed Purty, keeping his back to the door.
