Moira Rogers: Wilder's Mate

Satira perked up as they drew close, fingers tightening on his arm in her excitement. “The one on the right is the new model. You can tell because of the wider wheels. They help accommodate the shock absorbers.”

“If you say so, honey.” Wilder nodded to the coachman and helped Satira climb the carpeted steps.

“All I know is these things are supposed to make for a mighty smooth ride.”

“How do you manage to make everything sound obsce— oh .” The outside was ugly and plain, but inside was ostentatious luxury. Deep, thickly cushioned benches lined each side, so long that Satira could have stretched out on one. Everything was polished and gilded far past the bounds of good taste, and Satira seemed at a loss for words. “This is—”

“Pretentious?”

A laugh bubbled up, but she dug her teeth into her lower lip. “I suppose I’m to wait here while you secure passage?”

“It’ll only take a minute.” Wilder leaned against the edge of the doorway and blew a silk tassel away from his face. “Got a name you want me to give ’em? Something impressive?” She plopped onto one of the seats and shook her head. “Make something up. You’d know what would work, I’d wager.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Something that would limit questions, but generate plenty of gossip to precede them.

“I’ll trust your good judgment then. In this.” Her gaze dropped to her dress. “Which might indicate that my judgment has been rendered questionable.”

Only one thing would put her back on comfortable footing—clear and sincere irritation. “Who needs good judgment when you’ve got tits like that?” Then, whistling, he headed for the coach station.

She was going to stab Wilder Harding in his sleep.

They’d waited an hour in the coach before the driver had declared them the only passengers. Then he’d climbed up into the awkward enclosure housing the controls and left Satira trapped in an absurdly gilded cage with the crudest, most aggravating man she’d ever met.

And if he made one more comment about her breasts, she was going to—

What? Hit him? Oh, she wanted to pretend violence was on her mind, but too-taut nerves had driven her past the boundaries of sanity. Losing her grip on her fragile self-control might result in acts more carnal than violent.

That self-control took another hit when she glanced from the window and found his gaze had strayed to the bare skin exposed by her corset. How very unfair that the attention stirred heat and longing, when he’d made it so very clear that his appreciation meant as much as a man’s admiration for a fine table or expensive liquor. She was a pretty object to be used and set aside. Nothing flattering in that.

Nothing personal in that, no matter how much loneliness and her own unsuitable attraction might drive her to pretend otherwise. Anger at herself made her voice sharp. “Would it help our situation if I stripped naked and let you stare? Would that assuage your curiosity?” For a moment, he looked nothing if not startled, but he recovered quickly. “If the urge strikes you, sweetheart, you be my guest.”

Perhaps he thought her too cowardly. Too modest. She was too practical, so it must have been madness that forced her hands up. She lifted her chin, held his gaze—a dangerous challenge to a bloodhound—and deliberately pushed the stiff edges of the corset together, far enough for the first hook to pop free.

He didn’t move, but he watched her closely. “Feel like playing with fire, Satira?” Yes. Her capacity for self-delusion must be boundless, because she’d even come up with a rationalization, flimsy though it was. “It might help you keep your thoughts on your job instead of my breasts. Or do you still doubt my enthusiasm? None of the other bloodhounds complained.”

“Really, now?” He shook his head and looked away. “First off, I don’t doubt anything about you.

Second, my mind is on the job, so you don’t have to do me any special favors.”

Any fantasy that her fancy clothes and prettily styled hair might catch his eye withered under his pointed lack of concern. Inspiring lust in a man was apparently a far cry from gaining his interest, but she supposed she should know that better than any.

Her fingers trembled as she carefully fastened her corset. Need. Three bloodhounds had taken her to bed and left without a backward glance. Whatever stirred that mating hunger in bloodhounds, she clearly hadn’t inherited it.

“Satira.”

Humiliation was an unwelcome emotion. It made her unkind. It made her lie. “I probably wouldn’t have been enthusiastic enough for your tastes in any case. You’re not the type of man I favor.”

“I don’t doubt that.” His dark eyes had cooled, and he leaned back against the seat. “You seem to be used to a different sort of man. One who wouldn’t be offended that you didn’t really want to fuck him, but you’d do it so he could think straight.”

He didn’t know.

Relief pounded through Satira, leaving her light-headed. Somehow the fool man was oblivious to the painful yearning twisting her up inside, and she had no intention of handing him a weapon capable of devastating her pride. “I’m used to the normal sort of man,” she said stiffly. “The kind who doesn’t seem to care why a woman’s spreading her legs as long as he gets to make himself comfortable between them.” Wilder snorted. “That’s charming, honey, but it ain’t me . If a woman doesn’t want me there more than she wants her next breath, the ride isn’t worth it.”

Arrogant bastard. “And how is that fair? For a woman to want a man that much, to need him, when he doesn’t need her? When he’ll take her to bed and leave her there, aching and alone? Is breaking a heart what makes it worth it?”

“I’m not talking about that kind of need,” he retorted. “Sex doesn’t have to be about undying love, but it damn sure better be about hunger.”

She’d never confused the two things before. Maybe she’d simply never known that her lovers’ very ability to walk away meant they’d found her wanting. How foolish to feel the lack of something she hadn’t known possible, the ghost of rejection after the fact.

Satira folded her arms over her body as if she could shield herself from the uncomfortable turn of her own thoughts. “You don’t know the first thing about what I’m hungry for.”

“An undeniable truth.” He turned his gaze back to the window.

All his warmth and good-natured affection had vanished, leaving a hard man. No, not a man—a bloodhound who had shown an unnatural tolerance for her thus far. She’d do well to remember that, and to keep in mind that tolerance could fade and leave her at the mercy of a beast.

Worse, her recklessness might endanger more than her safety. Nathaniel’s life rested in Wilder’s hands, and she’d spent the past quarter hour antagonizing him. She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on his feet, a subtle bit of body language that had usually worked on Levi. “I’m sorry if I—”

“I don’t blame you,” he interrupted, his voice steely. “You think less of me than the mud on your boots, and that’s fine by me. No reason to pretend otherwise. But if you start talking like you need to make nice with me so I don’t leave Nate out there, I’ll spank your ass.” Holding her tongue had never been her specialty. “Is that a threat or a promise?” His answer was flat. Hard. “It’s a threat.”

Anger and guilt formed a hard knot in her belly as she curled her fingers around the edge of the seat.

“You’re a bloodhound. I was raised to respect your temper and know that it is not always within your control. You make it too easy for me to forget.”