Kendra Parker needs a man—it’s research for Widow Swanson’s article, “What Every Woman Needs to Know about Her Marriage Bed.” But the sparse population of Eastern Colorado in 1883 doesn’t offer many choices, until Major Marlow arrives.
Sterling Marlow rode into the Parker farm in time to celebrate the wedding of one of Kincaid Parker’s daughters. But it was the Pastor’s older daughter, Kendra, who caught his attention. Her seductive body wanted him, and who was he to deny the needs of a young woman?
Kendra Parker lowered her hand from her hair and held it out to him.
It took every ounce of control not to grab her hand, pull her against his chest, and kiss the hell out of her. He'd never met a more beautiful woman, nor had one made love to him with her eyes before. Damn! He was wound tighter than a diamond back. Exhaling low and slow, he reached for her hand.
"Miss Parker," he greeted, wincing at how his tone was a good three notes higher than normal.
"Major." Her voice was as lovely as the rest of her--soft, sweet, and more provocative than any saloon girl could ever hope to mimic.
She didn't try to pull her hand away, just let her supple, smooth palm rest against his. Their matching heat mingled, danced. Those blue eyes, still locked onto his, smoldered with enough heat to spark a fire all the way down in Texas. His toes curled inside his boots.
Kincaid's voice broke through the buzzing in his ears. "Kendra, your mother needs your help."
The fingers wrapped around his hand tightened for a split second, and the long lashes over her eyes lowered. Her lips pursed as she let out a long breath before she said, "Yes, Papa."
Sterling told his hand to let go, but it was another second or two before his fingers listened and lessened the hold he had on her. Slowly, sensuously, her fingers slipped away. A trail of heat bolted up his arm hotter than venom from a snake bite.