Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3) by Alison Kent Read Free Book Online Page B

anything, her time with Toby had taught her to keep her private life private.
    “Well, Grant? You think you can get me something on Crow Hill’s three bad boys? Say, we start with Dax Campbell. Talk to his sister . . . She married that Lasko kid, right? And to his old man, if you can get into the mansion on the hill where he’s been holed up since his heart attack. Maybe you can find out what happened to his mother since no one else seems to be able to.”
    Everly put down her foot. “I’ll do the human interest story. But I won’t do it from the Jerry-Springer-dysfunctional-family angle. And it makes much more sense to start with Boone Mitchell. He was the last to leave, the first to come back. His family’s still here, all of them respectable members of the community. Readers will more readily identify with him than with the other two.”
    Whitey’s heavy brow came down as he thought. “You’re saying give them what they know, draw them in, make them comfortable, then introduce the more exotic.”
    “I wouldn’t call Dax or Casper ‘exotic.’ But yes. Serials work best with cliffhangers, and escalating drama, to bring readers back for more.” Plus, she wanted to find out about Boone’s hell-raising past now, not later, after she’d profiled the other two.
    “I like the way you think, Grant.” Her boss waved the fat pen he held between two fingers and chewed on in lieu of a cigar. “I knew putting you on the payroll was the right thing to do.”
    As if he’d had any other applicants willing to take what he called pay. He’d been lucky to get her, and he knew it. And he hadn’t asked questions, which for Whitey was hard to believe.
    She waved him on as he left her office, and promised to get back to him in a day or two with thoughts on an approach for the Dalton Gang piece. In the meantime, the fund-raiser story was waiting, and the keys clicked as her fingers flew.
Even their masks couldn’t hide the identities of the generous library patrons determined to make up for the county’s recent funding cuts brought on by the region’s economic blight.
     
    Not that getting back to the fund-raiser story could keep her mind off her morning with Boone. Every time she shifted in her chair, she felt a part of him somewhere, and since he’d let her have her way with her scarves and watched without complaint, she’d let him have his when his eyes had asked for seconds.
Thanks to arrangements made by library board member Kendall Sheppard, owner of Sheppard’s Books, ticket holders were treated to authentic Western swing music played by local resident Mac Banyon’s band, the L’Amours.
     
    He’d rolled her over after untying his ankles, covering her body with his, spreading her legs, sliding his hard cock deep. It hadn’t taken him five minutes to recover. She didn’t think he’d even gone soft. And though she’d had absolutely no reason to be fearful, she’d been unable to help the nerves that had come over her, waiting for him to get rough.
With the dining room of Arwen Poole’s Hellcat Saloon cleared of its tables, attendees, dressed in costumes befitting the Old West theme, enjoyed an evening of good food and plentiful drinks, their boots scooting in lively Texas two-steps across the floor.
     
    Boone Mitchell was a big man, tall and broad and brick solid. Where Dax and Casper were both lean, their sculpted muscles tight, their builds rangy, Boone had the shoulders of a mountain man, the arms, too, as if he spent his days swinging an ax to fell trees. Or excavating slabs of granite. A picture due as much to his stony silence as the size of his arms and his hands.
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    And oh, his hands. His fingers. When he’d used his knee to spread her thighs, then pushed two fingers inside . . . She swore it was like being filled with a