He didn't understand! Panic set in. "I don't want any clothes," she pleaded.

He folded his arms. They regarded each other steadily for a moment. "Why don't you want new clothes, Grace?"

She sought frantical y for an excuse. She couldn't find one-other than the truth.

His tone was gentle, but tinged with frustration. "Grace, share what you're thinking with me."

She took a breath. "You want to flaunt me, don't you? In low-cut gowns, gaudy fabrics, high heels and expensive jewelry. Mrs. Garrot wil know.

Everyone wil know. I don't want to look like that." She inhaled. "I don't want to look like your whore!"

He flinched. His mobile mouth tensed. "You're not my whore."

"No?"

He closed his eyes. "Dammit, al right then! You are my whore! And who the hel 's choice was that?" he shouted.

She shrank against the bureau. She col ected herself. "You're right."

He turned away, cursing. Then he looked back at her. "I offered you marriage."

She said nothing.

He stared. His eyes searched hers. Grace held her breath. She couldn't look away. Oh, Lord, he was going to ask her again!

He tore his glance away. "I never intended to flaunt you, as you put it," he said slowly. "I also don't want to introduce you to my family clad in rags."

She knew she had misheard. "What?"

"I'm not going to introduce you to my family dressed like some..." He bit off what he'd been about to say-like some virgin old maid.

She felt faint and sick. "What do you mean?"

"How many times do I have to say it?" he demanded, ful y frustrated now.

"When am I meeting your family?" Absolute, unadulterated horror overcame her.

His glance was sharp. "I figured in a few weeks, maybe less, we'd head down that way. I haven't been home in a long while and my sister and her husband and kids are there."

She struggled for calm. A few weeks. She stil had time. There was no way she was going to meet his family-not now, not ever!

"What are you afraid of, Grace? Other than the scorn? It is more than that, isn't it? Because if it real y were condemnation, you would have never accepted my proposition the other night-you would have accepted my proposal. It is fear, isn't it?"

She folded her arms across her chest, hating this sensitive side of him. "No."

She folded her arms across her chest, hating this sensitive side of him. "No."

"You don't want to be beautiful. You're afraid of it. God knows why. You've spent your entire adult life running from being the attractive woman you are. I don't understand it." A look of bul dog tenacity crossed his face. "But I'm sure going to try."

"Rathe," she said, unable to stop herself from reaching out to him. "I don't want men to look at me and see just another pretty face."

"Why not? "

"Because I have things to do with my life! I can't be sidetracked by leering men with one thing on their minds!"

He stared at her. "You are the most unusual woman, Grace O'Rourke."

His tone warmed her, and fil ed her with hope. "Please don't make me go to Mrs. Garrot's."

His eyes softened. His smile was rueful. "Wel ," he said, "I suppose the mountain could come to Mohammed."

He returned an hour later with one of the hotel staff. They were carrying a trunk. Rathe tipped the boy and closed the door, then shot Grace a grin.

"The mountain, my lady," he teased.

"What have you done?"

"And Mrs. Garrot is not hiding in this trunk," he told her, opening it. "Although she thinks this very unusual."

Her heart had sunk. Although at least he hadn't made her go to the seamstress, he was stil going to insist on dressing her up like a kept woman.

She blinked at what he pul ed out-a soft gray silk gown, high-necked and completely modest. He looked at her.

Grace's heart started to soar.

He began unloading the trunk. Soft violets, forest and mint greens, quiet peaches and sky blues. "I personal y think," he said, "that you would look magnificent in vibrant, deep colors-emerald greens, royal blues, deep purple. But-" He sighed and smiled. "I have a feeling you'l prefer these."

She fingered a delicate peach chiffon evening gown with the tiniest pearl buttons, the finest lace, and a fashionable bustle. It was utterly beautiful.

Look what he had done.

"Try it on," he urged softly.

She lifted a bright gaze to his. She wet her lips nervously. "Rathe, real y..."

"Go ahead," he said, smiling. "It's okay to want these things. I just wish you'd let me give you more."

She stared at the exquisite garment. She did want it. She wanted to own it, she wanted to put it on. It was the finest dress she had ever seen, ever touched. Suddenly, giving in to the impulse, she grabbed it and darted for the screen at the end of the room. His rich, warm laughter fol owed her.

"Do you need help?" he cal ed.

She heard the teasing, lascivious note but was preoccupied with hurrying out of her own drab cotton clothes. "No," she said, stumbling out of her skirt and kicking it aside. She slithered into the peach dress. She pul ed the bodice up, and was relieved to see that while it exposed her throat and col arbone, no cleavage was revealed. Even the most proper ladies wore scandalously low-cut gowns in the evening. She was ridiculously pleased with his choice.

She suddenly felt shy. She couldn't reach al the buttons, but that wasn't it. Would he like it? What would he think when he saw her in this? Her heart was beating thickly.

"Grace?"

She took a breath, then walked out.

His eyes glowed.

"How does it look?" she asked shyly.

"Gorgeous," he breathed. "You're so gorgeous."

He was exaggerating, of course, but there was no mistaking the joy surging through her. She turned to the mirror. She couldn't believe she was looking at herself.

"The hotel has a ladies' maid," Rathe said, moving behind her. His fingers automatical y found the buttons she had missed, closing them. "Can I send for her to do your hair?"

She noticed her hair in its tight, prim bun for the first time. As if in a trance, she began removing the pins. Behind her, Rathe didn't move. With both hands, she lifted her hair and piled it high, holding it in place, turning her face slightly one way, then another.

"Can I take you downstairs to supper tonight?" Rathe asked softly.

Downstairs. Supper. She had seen the elegant dining room. He wanted to take her there, to a public place. Everyone, of course, would know she was his mistress. Yet...She imagined walking in on his arm, with her hair up, in this beautiful gown. "I don't know," she said uncertainly.

He was disappointed. "Al right. Another time." His hands covered her silk-clad shoulders. He bent and kissed her neck.

She watched him. His lashes fanned out thickly on his face as his lips moved tenderly on her skin. Sometimes, he could be the gentlest man. She looked at herself in the elegant evening dress. Tears fil ed her eyes. She was his mistress, but he had clothed her as if she were his wife. "Rathe? I've changed my mind. Let's dine out tonight."

It was her first public appearance as Rathe's mistress, and she turned heads.

Grace knew a hundred eyes were on her and she couldn't stop the pink color from sweeping over her from her head to her toes. She was a bundle of nerves. Rathe's hand was firm on her elbow as he escorted her downstairs. He himself was magnificent in a black evening cutaway coat and trousers.

She had felt beautiful a moment ago, when Rathe had worshiped her with his admiring gaze, but now she was wondering if she should run and hide. This was a mistake! Why, even the concierge was staring.

"Rathe," she whispered urgently, abruptly stopping on the bottom step. "Let's go back!"

"Grace, look at me. Do you want to hide in our hotel room for the next year?"

Her chin lifted.

"If that's what you want to do, we wil ," he said. His gaze locked with hers.

She was torn between fear and bravery. Then her glance flitted past Rathe, to land on the husky form of Sheriff Ford. Her eyes widened. At the sight of him standing in the center of the lobby, she was assailed by an image of Rathe and Ford squared off on Silver Street, both angry, both powerful, neither backing down. She had never been a coward before. She was not going to become one now.

"What in hel is he doing here?" Rathe muttered tersely.

At that moment, a black-haired beauty came through the front doors on the arm of an older gentleman. Grace went stiff at the sight of Louisa Barclay. Ford greeted the couple, and she smiled at something he said; then her flirtatious laughter rang out. She laid a hand on Ford's arm. Then she and her escort were leaving, passing through the elaborate rosewood doors of the restaurant's lobby entrance.

and her escort were leaving, passing through the elaborate rosewood doors of the restaurant's lobby entrance.

Ford looked at them.

Grace felt Rathe's body tense beside hers. "Rathe? Let's go, please. I'm starved."

He didn't answer. They moved off the step and into the lobby. Ford was approaching them. Grace tried to subtly guide Rathe toward the restaurant, but he pul ed her firmly forward-toward the sheriff.

"Been lookin' for you, Bragg," Ford said easily. His glance raked Grace with lewd interest. "Howdy, Miz O'Rourke. You stay in' heah now?" He grinned.

Rathe was breathing hard, furious. "You have something important to say to the lady?"

"Lady? "

Grace grabbed Rathe's arm, but he shook her off. He swung, but her interference was enough to al ow Ford to successful y duck.

"Stop it, he's the law for heaven's sakes. You could get arrested!" she cried frantical y.

Ford leveled his revolver as cool as a cucumber, cocking it. "You assaultin' an officer of the law, boy?"

Rathe's jaw bulged with clenched muscles. He was panting. He regained a semblance of control. Casual y, he lifted up his hands. Then he smiled.

"Did I touch you, Sheriff?"

Ford grinned, holstering his gun. "Nope, guess you didn't. Hey, Bragg, I ain't stupid. I know you got more money than this whole town put together. I know you got some powerful people eatin' from your hands. But you provoke me, I wil throw you in my jail. Your money may buy you freedom, but you spend a night in my place an' you ain't evah gonna forget it."

"Is that a threat, Sheriff?"

"Nope. That's a fact." He looked at Grace. "Maybe later, when the two of you are nice and cozy, you should remind him of it."

Rathe's arm tensed beneath hers.

"Please," Grace whispered, "please."

Ford was beaming. "I only stopped by to share some news. Thought you might be interested."

"What news?"

Ford looked sad. "That sailor, the one who assaulted Miz O'Rourke? Able Smith? He appears to have escaped. Can you believe that? What with the judge comin' an' al ?"

Rathe stared.

Ford sighed. "You two enjoy yourselves tonight," he said. He turned to go.

Rathe's hand clamped on his shoulder, stopping him. Ford looked at the hand. But Rathe didn't remove it. "You're making a big mistake, Sheriff,"

Rathe drawled, "if you think you can come up against me and win."

Ford shrugged free. He touched his hat and walked away.

"Rathe, let's go into the restaurant-now."

He stared after Ford, then took her arm. Grace looked at his profile, very worried. It was hard as granite. She laid her free hand on top of his. "Are you hungry?"

He forced his attention to her, but he stil didn't answer.

As the maitre d' led them to their table, Grace was reminded that she had started this entire thing. Rathe pul ed out her chair, seating her. He was very grim.

"What are you going to do?" Grace asked as he perused a wine list.