Angel Gone Bad Read online

  Praise for LADY GONE BAD

  “An exciting read!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Bobbi Smith

  “A fun read—Old West Style!”

  —USA Today blog

  “Starr writes a fun, vivid western romance with entertaining characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “If you’re a fan of sexy cowboys, mysterious outlaws, historical settings, and HAWT romance—definitely grab this one up.”

  —JenRen Reviews

  “Readers will enjoy . . . Lady Gone Bad.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “I like the plot, the characters and dialogue, the chemistry.”

  —Diah’s review (goodreads.com)

  “This is a good western story with a spicy romance.”

  —The Book Faerie

  “Lady Gone Bad is a hot romance with a touch of tenderness at its core.”

  —Virginia Campbell (redroom.com)

  “And I loved the spiritual aspect to it, someone watching over them and aiding in their journey.”

  —Lady Godiva (goodreads.com)

  “This book is perfect for a romance reader.”

  —nocturnereads.com

  “One of the best historicals of the year!”

  —Melissa’s Mochas, Mysteries and More

  ANGEL GONE BAD

  As she moved slowly into the saloon, quiet followed in her wake. Voices faltered when surprised patrons stopped to watch her advance. By the time she reached the middle of the room, quiet had descended and she was the complete center of attention.

  Startled at the reaction to her appearance, Angel held down her panic by thinking about what Lady Gone Bad, the famous singer, would do with so many male admirers staring at her and judging her attributes.

  She raised her chin, let her shawl fall open, put her hands on her hips, and glanced around the room with a smile on her rosy lips. She drew upon all her courage and issued a challenge, “Any of you know how to play poker?”

  In response, hootin’ and hollerin’ filled the place.

  She cocked her head. “I take that as a yes.”

  ALSO BY SABINE STARR

  Lady Gone Bad

  Angel Gone Bad

  SABINE STARR

  eKENSINGTON

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for LADY GONE BAD

  ANGEL GONE BAD

  ALSO BY SABINE STARR - Lady Gone Bad

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Bride Gone Bad

  Copyright Page

  To Albert, who brought the Viking spirit from Sweden to America.

  And to Dean, who sustains it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Stella for sharing her copies of BISKINIK,

  the official publication of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma;

  Cousins Donna, Darmond, Buckley, Brandon, and Christina

  for a wild research trip to Medicine Spring;

  Cousins Marilyn, Larry, Brad, Shanie, Shiane, Larime, and Ivy

  for horse-riding inspiration;

  Cousins Cathy, Sandra, Ginger, Mona, and Gerald

  for education inspiration;

  Cousin Stan for Choctaw Lighthorseman/Tribal Police inspiration;

  Genieva, Jeanie, Nancy, Patsy, Sharlot, and Wanda

  for sharing my research at the Runestone Park;

  And all the writers in my family for their outstanding work.

  Badger Gang Terrorizes Five State Area!

  —The Branding Iron, official paper of the Choctaw Nation

  Chapter One

  1884, Dennison, Texas

  Harmony swooned into the muscular arms of the virile

  stranger with blazing blue eyes. “My hero!”

  Angel paused and glanced up. Were the words she read from Sweet Rescue in the Indian Territory, her first dime novel, creating the desired effect?

  Fresh-faced ingénues in flowery dresses and stout matrons in Sunday-go-to-meeting hats sat absolutely still in rapt attention, eyes open wide, hands clasped to bosoms, faces pink with excitement.

  Yes, she had them. Angel breathed a silent sigh of relief. Short lived, of course. She was in the last place she wanted to be, daring fate to smash her flat. At the Bonham Female Academy, reading, much less writing, dime novels was definitely not part of the curriculum and could cause her to lose her position.

  To protect her identity, she used a pen name, dressed flamboyantly in rich colors, and wore a blond wig to cover her sorrel tresses. She would never, ever read in Bonham or nearby communities. Angelica and Crystabelle Morgan must always be kept in separate worlds. Even with so much caution, she lived in fear somebody would recognize her.

  But the Red River Book Club grew restless, corsets creaked, throats cleared, feet shifted. They weren’t in the most comfortable of surroundings. Wolfpath Mercantile provided a location while the ladies squeezed in chairs from home. The store catered to a hardworking population, selling a wide variety of items, plus dime novels. A pickle barrel, bolts of cloth, sacks of flour and sugar, farm implements, jars of candy, and tins of tobacco cast a dizzying array of scents into the air. A checkerboard table had been moved aside to make room for the audience of readers who sat facing the author with their backs to the front door.

  Angel couldn’t let personal worries intrude. She wanted to do her best and please these ladies who had taken time out of their busy lives to be there and support her. She raised her voice as she returned to Harmony’s torrid adventures in the Wild, Wild West.

  Wolfpath’s front door was flung open. Boot heels rang out against the wood floor. Spurs jingled an angry tune.

  Angel stopped in shock, looking up from her book and over the heads of her audience.

  A sea of hats swiveled as the ladies turned to see who had the nerve to interrupt the quiet Sunday afternoon. Gasps of surprise filled the store.

  “You may call yourself Angelica, but you’re sure as hell no angel,” the stranger said in a deep voice with the lilting cadence of a Northman.

  Heads turned from the intruder back toward the author. Embarrassed ti
tters filled the room as the ladies pressed white handkerchiefs to their lips as if to hold in their excitement.

  Angel felt her breath catch in her throat. Her greatest fear had just stepped through the doorway. She’d never expected to see Rune Wulfsson again, not after what she’d done to him. If he was here, he’d been released from jail and hunted her down for one reason and one reason only. Revenge.

  She felt her blood run cold. He was a formidable opponent. He knew too much. He hated her too much. She must be smart, think fast, and save the explosive situation. From schoolmarm to dance-hall slattern was not her idea of a successful future.

  “Right on time.” She pasted on a smile, although her jaw ached with the effort. “Ladies, may I present the Viking.”

  Hats whipped back around as the women took a better gander at the tall-as-a-tree man with blue eyes the color of a storm-tossed sky. Mad. Angry. Furious. None was a strong enough word for the blaze in his eyes or his clenched fists.

  Angel plunged onward, hoping to avert the next words out of his mouth. “I asked him to join us so you could see an example of how authors draw from real life to write their books.”

  The ladies oohed and took the opportunity, maybe a once-in-a-lifetime event, to ogle a surefire, handsome hero.

  Belatedly, obviously remembering his manners, the Viking whipped off his white, six-gallon hat, revealing close-cropped sandy hair, and gave a slight bow. Good manners didn’t extend to his scowl, straight brows meeting over hooded eyes. One long-fingered hand dropped near the pearl-handled Colt .45 he wore in a fancy tooled gun belt that emphasized his narrow hips and muscular thighs clad in form-fitting Levi’s. A blue plaid shirt strained across his broad chest.

  Angel sighed. Last time she’d seen him, he’d worn a fringed leather vest, tight leather trousers, and an eagle feather in long hair bleached almost white by the sun. Cowboy gear suited him just as well. Even if he appeared thinner and a little pale, he couldn’t have looked more delectable if he’d tried.

  And that was exactly what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

  Chapter Two

  Blast Angel’s wicked soul. Rune ground his teeth at her impudence. Spawn of Hel. Castigator of Freya. Lover of Loki. She had no right to look good as a blonde, or any other way.

  If he was truly a Viking like his ancestors, he’d toss her to the floor and give her readers a lot more than a dime novel to fill their pretty heads. Reality wouldn’t be their cup of tea. He’d bet a full house on that fact.

  But he was already fighting snakes aplenty. He didn’t need outraged ladies calling for his head, at least not till he got away.

  Over nine months had passed since he’d set eyes on his personal bitter pill. He’d changed, but she still left him thunderstruck. Not just by her sassy words. Her looks, too. First time ever he saw her, a gray traveling suit did its best to hide her substantial physical assets, but the wild sorrel hair flying loose around her face as she castigated outlaws told the tale of a feisty spirit. He’d rescued her, more’s the pity. After that she wore simple cotton, a red skirt with a white blouse unbuttoned low enough to drive a man witless. She’d looked a hell of a lot more devil than angel.

  Now she appeared like an expensive piece of candy wrapped in gold foil, something he’d want to unwrap slowly to get the full benefit of the high price. She wore a deep shade of lavender in a silk bustle dress that covered her from neck to toe, along with black gloves and black boots. A matching hat perched on the upswept blond curls.

  She was a sight for sore eyes, especially ones that hadn’t feasted on female flesh for what felt like an eternity. He deserved a long look. She owed him that and plenty more. He’d get his fill. This time he wouldn’t be a gentleman.

  “You’re a hard lady to track down,” Rune said, disgust turning his voice flat. “Gallivanting like you are all over North Texas.”

  “She is a published author.” Mrs. Gunther, chairwoman of the Red River Book Club, stood up and stared hard. “By request, Angelica is gracing our communities with her presence. We are proud that one of our own has sought to convey our way of life to the world at large.”

  Rune blinked, taken by surprise. Angel did seem to collect allies. “She’s no Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. She’s writing dime romance novels.”

  “Longfellow is a romance writer, too,” Mrs. Gunther said, adjusting her hat as if for battle. “You should, no doubt, appreciate the fact that he romanticizes your own Viking heritage in lovely poems.”

  “Poetic drivel. As if he ever got off his duff and went a-viking. Northmen were raiders and traders. In summertime, they hunted in their long boats along the coast lines and up the rivers of Europe, or even farther afield. I doubt their surprise attacks would have been pretty.”

  Mrs. Gunther inhaled sharply, brown bombazine rising upward like a Valkyrie’s metal-plated bosom. “Not everyone can appreciate the written word.”

  “Not everybody has time for it.” Rune realized he was arguing over books, of all things. “I sure don’t. I’m here for your writer.”

  Angel snatched her reticule, a small, purple drawstring bag, from her lap and slipped the strings over her wrist. She stood up. “I know these ladies have enjoyed seeing and bantering with you. Thank you for stopping by. Now I’ll continue reading from Sweet Rescue.”

  “Fine. Bring your book.” He crossed the room in several strides, grabbed her around the waist, and slung her over his shoulder.

  She hit him on his shoulder with her dime novel. “Put me down!”

  “Unhand her, sir,” Mrs. Gunther ordered as the other readers stood up in alarm to confront him.

  “Relax, ladies. You’re sure to get another novel out of this adventure.” Rune tipped his hat and headed for the door.

  Angel struggled against him, soft curves adding fuel to the fire she’d already stoked in his belly. Damn her sorry hide. His irritation ratcheted up a notch. As he stepped outside, he gripped her harder, enjoying the power, the control, the fury.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, “or I’ll scream so loud the entire town will be after you.”

  “One sound out of you and the whole world will know your true identity.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Try me.”

  Chapter Three

  As Rune left Wolfpath in his dust, Angel glanced about as best she could from her awkward position. She squinted against bright sunlight and felt heat sting her face. She needed help, but the whole town appeared to be asleep on this scorcher of an afternoon. Readers armed with books stood no chance against a mad Viking with a six-shooter. Hopefully one of the ladies would run for the town marshal, but that’d take time. She was on her own.

  “Put me down!” she hissed. “Your shoulder is cutting me in two.”

  In answer, he slapped her bottom, boot heels ringing out a sharp, steady staccato on the wooden boardwalk.

  “You’re going to pay dearly for this ignominy.”

  At the end of the boardwalk, he stepped off onto beaten dirt and turned sharply down an alley into dark shadows. He eased her off his shoulder and let her slide down his hard body till her feet touched the ground.

  She stepped back, taking a deep breath, head reeling. She slipped her dime novel into her reticule. “Okay. You’re mad at me. Maybe I made a mistake. No need to act like it’s the end of the world.”

  Rune loomed over her. “I spent months in a jail cell. You know how that feels? What I endured? What I lost?”

  “If it helps, I regret my actions. Let’s let bygones be bygones.”

  “No apology?”

  She straightened her shoulders. She had no intention of letting him intimidate her. “You dumped me in Fort Smith. Didn’t you expect a little payback?”

  “I treated you like the lady I thought you were. Respectable schoolmarm.”

  Angel felt old pain squeeze her heart. Tears stung her eyes at the remembered hurt, the devastation of being rejected by him. She’d loved him with an intensity that stil
l scared her. She pushed down the rogue emotions, not about to feel anything for him ever again.

  “You told the judge and marshal I was dealing in stolen horses.”

  “Okay. You hurt me. I hurt you. It’s in the past.” She stepped forward to get past him. “I need to go back and reassure the book club that I’m fine.”

  “Are you?” He put large hands around her waist and lifted her off her feet so they were face to face. His eyes burned like blue fire.

  She felt almost overwhelmed by his scent, his heat, his power. She fought back with her own strength: words. “I’m getting mighty tired of you manhandling me.”

  “I remember a time when you begged me to touch you.”

  “Obviously I’d been out in the sun too long.”

  “I’d like to hear you beg again.”

  “In your dreams, Viking.”

  “Did you dream about me?” Rune asked in a low, sensual voice. He set her down and pushed her back against the clapboard side of the building that loomed above them. He leaned over her with large hands pressed against the wood on either side of her face, corralling her.

  Angel shivered, feeling the old emotions start to uncurl like a snake readying to strike.

  “In my cell, I dreamed about you. Succubus. You know what that means?”

  “Certainly. I’m a teacher. And no, I did not—”

  “Come to me at night and ravage my body?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “I felt you torment me. Soft hands sliding across my chest, moving lower, grasping my prick—”

  “Oh! How dare you talk to me that way.”

  “I’ll talk to you any way I want.” He smiled, a sharp twist of his sensual lips. “I’ll do anything I want. Every last damn thing I dreamed about.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his right hand, a feather-light touch. “You were naked. Hot, smooth flesh. And so wet for me.”