Finally he stopped pacing and stood before her. Close. Too close. And she had nowhere to go.

Boone stared at the girl on the bed. What the hell was he going to do with her?

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She flinched. “I’m not telling you anything,” she said frostily.

He almost smiled. She should be crying, hysterical, terrified, but she still had the guts to look at him coldly. She couldn’t hide the way her hands and knees shook, though. “Well, then, I’ll just call you sugar.”

She pursed her lips. “Jayne,” she said.

“No last name?”

“Not that I’d care to share with you.”

He leaned forward and down. “Don’t play hardball with me, lady. I’m your only chance of getting out of here alive.”

She swallowed, sending that slender, pale throat working in interesting ways.

In the hallway someone snickered. Doug or Marty…probably both.

Boone sighed. “Give me your jacket,” he ordered.

“I will not.”

He slipped off his leather jacket and placed it on the end of the bed, pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it atop the jacket. He drew the Colt pistol from his waistband, looked at the weapon, looked at the woman, then quickly went to the closet and placed the pistol on the top shelf. He didn’t think Jayne would actually try to shoot him, but until they got things straightened out here, he couldn’t be sure—and she wouldn’t be able to reach the top shelf without a ladder or a chair. Neither was handy.

That done, he waggled his fingers at her, silently asking again for the jacket to her expensive suit. She stubbornly lifted her chin and shook her head.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said through clenched teeth. “But I need that damn jacket.”

She sniffled and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Fine,” he said. “We do this the hard way.” He sat beside her and grasped one wrist in his hand. She fought a little, but not very hard.

“Get your hands off of me,” she said loudly, slapping at his hands.

In the hallway, another giggle.

Finally, after just a little wrestling, he had the jacket in his hand. He shook his free finger at her. “Now lie down and be still.”

“I will not.”

Boone closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is not going to work.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed.

Boone left the bed and went to the door, opening it on two grinning young thugs. “What the hell are you two doing here?” He shook the jacket as he spoke. They looked past him, no doubt to see a red-faced Jayne sitting on the side of the bed, her hair mussed and her blouse halfway untucked.

“There’s nothin’ else to do around here,” Doug said. “Ain’t you finished yet?”

“Some of us like to take more than three minutes with a woman, kid. Get lost. If I see either one of you near this door or that window,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll shoot you.”

“Maybe you oughtta tell her that,” Marty said with a lift of his chin.

Boone turned around to see that Jayne stood at the window, tugging frantically at the lower frame. He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her with a shake of his head.

“It’s painted shut,” he informed her.

She gave one last tug and spun to face him, her eyes red and her cheeks flushed. It hit him, for the first time, how very small she was. Not thin, but short—no more than five foot two—and delicately shaped. Beneath the hem of her straight skirt was a pair of nice legs. Up the length of her body she sported easy curves.

“We need to talk,” he said softly. “Sit down.”

She shook her head.

“Please,” he said, calling on every little bit of patience he had left. “Please sit down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I imagine you think I should be flattered,” she said, trying to sound strong and falling far short. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“Well, you would be dead right now if not for me. A little gratitude can’t be too much to ask,” he said in a low voice. His response did nothing to soothe her. She brought a hand to the pearls at her throat, and her breathing changed, became more rapid. He did not need her passing out on him! Calming himself, he raised both hands, palms out. “I swear, I’m not going to touch you. You’re safe with me. Now sit on the bed.”

She moved warily away from the window, and he stepped into her place, making certain the curtains were tightly closed. He didn’t need anyone peeking in, and warning or no warning, he wouldn’t put anything past Doug and Marty. When he turned around, he saw that Jayne had done as he asked and was perching prettily on the edge of the bed.

“We need to talk,” he said, “but first…”

Her eyes grew wide as he stepped around her to the head of the bed, gripping one corner of the headboard in his hand. He sighed tiredly. How to explain? Best just to do what he had to do.

While Jayne sat warily on the side of the mattress, Boone banged the headboard against the wall. Once. Twice. A third time. He waited a moment, then began again, in a steady rhythm this time. Eyes pinned on the woman, he banged the cheap headboard against the wall over and over.

“You could help,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Help with what?”

“Make a little noise. Pretend to be enjoying yourself.”

“I will not,” she said indignantly.

With his free hand, Boone reached out and grabbed Jayne’s wrist. As he’d suspected she would, she squealed. He smiled. “That’ll do.”

Jayne clamped her mouth shut and pursed her lips. Oh, she was cute when she got mad. Of course, she’d been mad since he’d met her. Mad and scared.

He sped up the rhythm of the headboard banging against the wall. “Do it again,” he ordered in a whisper.

“No, I wo—” At an insistent tug that dragged an unwilling Jayne closer to the head of the bed, she squealed once more.

Oh, this was not good. The way he was holding her made her creamy blouse hug her breasts. She was breathing hard, the way she might if this was not pretend. Her fiery green eyes were latched onto his. And the banging of the headboard reminded him of what he was pretending to do. The rhythm, the shaking of the bed… “One more time, sugar.”

“Don’t call me—”

He hauled her off the bed so that she came to her feet and ran smack-dab into his bare chest. This time she screamed. Boone whacked the headboard against the wall three more times for good measure, and then he quit.

Jayne glanced up at him, suspicious and still frightened. But then, they hadn’t had their little talk yet, so she was less than fully informed.

“Was it good for you?” he whispered.

In answer she slapped him across the cheek, hard and solid.

Jayne realized, as the sound of the slap reverberated in the air, that she should not have hit him. Still, she wasn’t sorry.

He laid a big hand over the red mark she’d made on his face. “Sit,” he said.

She did, and again he paced in front of her. She wasn’t as afraid as she had been. He had only pretended to…well, he’d pretended, and he said they needed to talk. About what? Ah, likely he was interested in her offer of money from her father.

“My daddy will pay you anything…”

“Let’s leave your daddy out of this, shall we?” Becker said testily. “I’m trying to figure things out.”

“Figure what out?”

“What to do with you, sugar.”

Jayne bit her lower lip. There were worse things to be called than sugar, she supposed.

Finally Becker stopped pacing and stood before her, bare-chested, bigger than most men, all muscle and hair and tight jeans and penetrating eyes. There was something intimidating about him. Something intense. Of course he was intimidating!

“Can I trust you?” he asked, the question seeming to be more for himself than for her. “God, what a mess.” He then began to mumble a string of profanity that had Jayne blushing.

“Do you mind?” she finally asked.