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To Touch A Woman --by Titania Ladley Coming October 2009 from eRedSage.com Three Kinds of Wicked Series With her deserting cad of a husband Renegade LaMarr back in Moose Junction, tomboy Cassandra "Rebel" Thatcher's as spitting mad as a peeled rattler and prepared to shoot the handsome coward right out of his boots. She's got her rifle at the ready and a fine-looking, mysterious drifter named Trey to warm her between the sheets and guard her jaded heart against Renegade. Armed with a secret and determined to get rid of Trey, Renegade plots to finally claim Rebel, chaps, spurs, boy breeches and all. Only problem is, before he can draw his six-shooter and declare a challenge, Renegade finds himself falling under Trey’s magical spell right along with his passionate, spitfire wife. Read Excerpt

Excerpt

“No one’s going to shoot anyone, goddamn it,” Renegade muttered under his breath, taking three more steps toward her.

She swung the weapon back around, aiming it at his black heart. “Get back, you slimy lizard.”

His boots skidded across the sawdust floor, abruptly halting his momentum. He held his hands up. “Whoa. Take it easy, Rebel.”

“Take it easy my ass,” she hissed. “I’ve been mad as a peeled rattler for going on six months now, so you just best watch yourself. You don’t get back, as God is my witness, LaMarr, I’ll shoot you. I swear I will.”

“Jesus Christ, do you have to call me LaMarr?” Renegade shoved a hand through his hair in that all-male way that used to make her feel all fluttery inside. Repeat, used to. His next words came out none too tender.

And it riled her all the more. “You know it’s Renegade, goddamn it.”

Yeah, she knew Renegade all right. The coward’s name had been a toxin contaminating her brain for months, and a name she demanded, guns at the ready, that no one was allowed to utter in Moose Junction.

Still, he didn’t have to know that, or that if her heart beat any faster at the knowledge he was back, she’d faint dead away. But doggone it, if her hands got any shakier and her teeth grinded together any harder, she just might kill the bastard after all.

Stand your ground, Rebel. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t fall for that sappy tone he always resorted to when he wanted something out of you. “Well, ‘stead of Renegade, I prefer to call you a pisspot, son of a—”

“Cassie, put the gun down, sweetheart.” Trey’s deep, soothing voice filled her ears, his footsteps approaching from behind. He circled his strong arms around her and guided the rifle upward so the barrel aimed at the ceiling. He’d only been in town and in her bed for a few weeks, but he had an uncanny calming effect on her, like some sort of angel. She exhaled, letting the rage seep out of her limbs. Relaxing against the wall of Trey’s chest, she thought how she liked that he called her by her given name, something no one in this hellhole ever did. It made her feel wanted, and though she didn’t care to admit it, it also made her feel womanly for once, which had been a curious revelation.

But one she’d never admit to a soul.

Rebel gawked when Renegade’s muscles tensed, his gaze riveted to Trey. Something almost territorial flashed in Renegade’s eyes. It reminded her of a wolf eyeing his competition with lips curled back and fangs bared. He blinked. “Who the hell’s he?”

Holy stinking moles, is Renegade jealous?

Trey gently tugged the rifle from her loosening grip. “Name’s Trey Raphael,” he replied, his voice overflowing with respect Renegade clearly didn’t deserve.

Renegade loomed nearer, halting his smug stroll directly in front of Rebel. The heat of his formidable body competed with that of Trey’s, who continued to encircle her from behind with his sinewy arms while claiming her rifle. Renegade stood so close she had to tip her head back to gaze up into his chiseled, hard face. Memories of their wedding kiss assailed her again when his familiar leathery scent engulfed her, entwining with the wintry aroma of Trey behind her.

An outlandish vision filled her head of being wedged between the two while in a much more intimate position than a barroom spat. But the fantasy abruptly vanished when Renegade drew a bowie knife and held the sharp tip against Trey’s throat, eliciting a wave of gasps and whispers from the tavern regulars.
Renegade’s order came with a guttural, deadly roar. “You son of a bitch, get your goddamn hands off my woman.”