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place and slid
    past him.
    "If you will excuse me," she said, "I must…" Her sentence went unfinished. She hurried away
    down the aisle, past the curious and pointed gazes of her fellow travelers.
    Tomás met the stares one by one until every voyeur found something better to do, and then
    had a good laugh at his own expense.
    Ay, Dios! He could hear Sim Kavanagh's voice now: "Caballero, if you're going to lose your head,
    never do it over a woman."
    His head was still in place, but his mind was another matter. Or perhaps a more southerly part
    of his anatomy was to blame.
    He relaxed and closed his eyes. Why fight it? Rowena was hardly his kind of woman, nor had he
    ever been required to beg for a lady's favors. In this case it might actually help to imagine her as
    his Lady of Flame, lest reality douse the very first ember. She'd take her own life rather than
    admit to a werewolf's passion.
    If MacLean managed to steal her back before Tomás was finished with her, he was likely to
    discover his privates frozen between the sheets.
    His mouth twitched between a smile and a frown. Let that horse be saddled when he caught it.
    And catch it he would. There was nowhere for Rowena to go until they reached La Junta, which
    should be in a handful of hours. The end of the journey, and the beginning of a new one. Lady
    Ice was in for quite a surprise.
    For the first time he noticed that she'd left something of herself behind in her haste to escape.
    The white satin fan lay half open and forgotten on her seat, absurdly delicate. A careless move
    could crush it.
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    It's an unusual marble statue that needs cooling, he thought. Or were you just beginning to
    thaw? On impulse he snatched up the fan. The pristine folds carried Rowena's unique
    fragrance.
    There was no denying that she owned an intoxicating natural perfume under all her feminine
    armor. Lady Ice would never let him near the source of that bouquet, but the Lady of Fire…
    He moved to her seat to stretch out his legs and was idly fanning himself when he registered
    the first hint of an entirely different scent.
    Danger. It rose above the odors of someone's recent meal, bodies closely mingled, and ever-
    present smoke. His body snapped to attention before his mind could focus. The porter who
    obstructed his view of the aisle came level with his berth, and he recognized the man who
    stood at the opposite end of the car.
    They called him lucky, the men who followed him. But no luck of his brought Weylin MacLean
    to this train on the very day that would see the start of the MacLeans' ultimate humiliation.
    It was beyond belief that Weylin had tracked him to and from New York. He was sure that the
    younger MacLean had never set foot in the city; he'd have acted immediately if he knew Tomás
    was on board. He couldn't have recognized Lady Rowena.
    That was as far as Tomás's luck held. At any moment Weylin would catch his scent and look
    across the car, and then there'd be hell to pay.
    The Randalls had already paid their debt to hell.
    Lady Rowena would know nothing of his sudden alteration in plans, but that would be
    remedied soon enough. He tucked the folded fan in his coat. Enjoy your freedom while you can,
    my Lady Ice. This is not good-bye, but simply adios.
    He rose casually, taking the porters arm and using him as a shield to block Weylin's view.
    "There's a man at the other end of the car," he said. "Tall and light-haired. It's very important
    that you don't let him come any further into the car. If you do, there will be trouble. Do you
    understand?"
    The porter blinked and nodded. "Don't let him come in."
    "Excelente. And now I will be going." He patted the man's arm and started for the rear of the
    car.
    He didn't know what drew him to glance back as he reached the door. Weylin looked directly at
    him and stilled in midstep. His gray eyes narrowed. The porter hurried to confront him, but
    Tomás didn't wait to