Colorado, 1880s, at an outdoor city dance –

He rested his hands on the wagon side just above her shoulders. Even in the dim light he saw the pulse in her throat beat. Close enough to feel her warmth, hear her slightly accelerated breathing. Her tongue nervously crept out to moisten her lower lip and his gut tightened. Did she taste as sweet as he suspected? Feeling his own blood pulse, his voice hardly more than a whisper, he asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Chapter Five

Her knees strangely weak, Julie leaned gratefully against the high side of the wagon. Her heart raced and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. On impulse she had allowed him to lead her past the punch table. With his nearness he’d stolen her ability to think clearly.

Why was she being so jittery? They were still only yards away from the dance floor, she still heard the orchestra, the buzz of conversation.

But how could she think when he was so close? Every breath she took carried the scent of soap, tobacco, and his warm, musky indefinable male scent. The dim light cast his face into planes and angles. Would the mustache be stiff and scratchy or soft and silky? The thought of finding out made her breath catch.

“Tell me your name, sweetheart,” he repeated. His mouth moved closer to hers, his low voice a velvet caress that sent shivers across her shoulders.

“Julie,” she managed to whisper. “Juliette Marie.”

“Julie,” he repeated as if he liked the sound of her name in his mouth. He bent his head. Her heart raced with anticipation and dread. She wondered wildly if she was afraid his kiss would be just like others—or more afraid it wouldn’t.

He touched his lips to hers. At the soft caress of his mouth, her eyes fluttered closed. His gentleness left her without resistance, the liquid heat of his kiss seeped through her body to lodge in the most unusual places. How could the warmth of his lips and the silkiness of his mustache make her breasts tingle? He lifted his head and she realized the soulful sigh she heard was her own.