Bed of Roses by Rebecca Paisley Read Free Book Online Page B

man who should have at least fifty more years ahead of him.
    This day, this beautiful, sunny morning, would be his last.
    Drying her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, she sniffled and tried to summon the courage she would need to send Sawyer to his Maker.
    “This chicken laid an egg in my bed.”
    The sudden sound of his voice caused her to shriek with surprise and whirl to face him. “You scared me!” Taking deep breaths to try to slow her pounding heart, she saw him watching her intently.
    Had he heard her speak to her grandfather about the killing? “How long have you been awake?”
    Sawyer tried to shrug, but his shoulder injury wouldn’t let him. Still, he felt better and he realized he was no longer sick with fever.
    In fact, he was hungry. “I woke up a few seconds ago when I heard your sniffling. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”
    His apology made her feel worse. He was nice, she mused. Just as the nuns said he was.
    It would sure be a lot easier to kill him if he were rude and cruel.
    “You’re the girl from the convent. Why were you crying?”
    “My tears have no business with you, Sawyer Donovan. And do not be nice to me.”
    He frowned. If her voice had been any sharper she could have sliced steel with it. “Don’t be nice to you?”
    “That is right. Do not be nice to me.”
    Her command didn’t make a bit of sense to him, but he complied. “All right. Get the hell out of my room to do all your damn crying, woman, and get this blasted chicken out of my bed.”
    She stared at him, unable to believe what she’d heard him say. “What?”
    “You said for me not to be nice to you.” Grimacing, he touched the thick white bandage on his shoulder. “And considering the way I feel, it’s a hell of a lot easier to be mean than it is to be nice.”
    “You are in my house, and you dare to be mean with me?” She marched toward the bed, stopping a few feet away. “I do not think you have enough pickles in your barrel.”
    “Pickles?”
    “Your barrel needs more pickles?” Zafiro rephrased the question. Oh, how did that expression go? “You are crazy.”
    Finally, he understood. “I’m one pickle short of a barrel.”
    “Yes, that is what I said. Now, do not be mean with me in my own house.”
    “You don’t want me to be nice, and I didn’t ask you to bring me here, got that? The last thing I remember is being attacked by a cougar, so it must have been your own decision to bring me into your home and—”
    “If you had not chased me from the convent, none of this would have hap—”
    “I thought you’d stolen—”
    “Well, I did not steal anything—”
    “How was I supposed to know—”
    “Basta! Enough! I will not listen to you say one more word!”
    Her shouting quieted him, but not because her anger intimidated him. Actually, he couldn’t have cared less how mad she was.
    It was his preference to study her in silence that induced him to cease arguing with her.
    And study her he did.
    Standing in the middle of the sparsely furnished room, she rocked back and forth on her heels. Her ebony hair flowed down her body like melted midnight, the ends of those thick tresses curling around her gently rounded hips. Her breasts strained against her white blouse. They weren’t overly large, but her shirt appeared to be too small for her.
    “You are staring at my breasts.”
    Her immodest statement made him smile. “Sorry.”
    “You cannot help it. Azucar said that men like to do that, so I think that it is a liking you were born with. Men also like to touch and taste women’s breasts. I know everything there is to know about lovemaking.”
    “Oh, really?” The conversation seemed highly improper, but if it didn’t bother her, he certainly wasn’t going to let it bother him. “What else do you know?”
    “Everything Azucar told me.”
    “I see. So who is this authority on lovemaking, your beau? Husband?”
    Zafiro raised one eyebrow. “Azucar is a woman. A very