Woman Hater

The foreman launched into grand detail about seeing to the winter pasture, fixing fences, storing hay, culling cows, doing embryo transplants for the spring calving and organizing other facets of ranch life that he’d expected would go right over Nicole’s head.

“One of my family was into embryo transplants when it was barely theory,” Nicole interrupted. “They had some great successes. Now there’s a new system underway, implanting computer chips just under the skin to keep track of herds….”

“Say, I’ve read about that,” Mike agreed, and Gerald sat and stared while the two of them discussed cattle.

“Mr. Christopher must be feeling pretty proud of himself to have someone like you on the payroll,” Nicole told the foreman when they reached a stopping point. “You know your business.”

“Forgive me, ma’am, but so do you.” Mike grinned, his ruddy face almost handsome with his blue eyes flashing. “I never knew a woman who could talk cattle before.”

“I never knew a man who talked it as well.” She grinned back.

“I thought you were from Chicago,” Gerald sighed, shaking his head, when Mike had gone and they were sipping coffee in the living room. “Until you admitted that you were a Kentuckian, at least,” he added. His gaze was warm and faintly questioning. “Amazing, that we worked together for two years and knew nothing about each other.”

She smiled at him. “I guess most bosses and secretaries are like that, really,” she agreed. “You’re very nice to work for, though. You don’t yell, like some of your vice presidents do.”

He laughed. “I try not to. Winthrop, now,” he said, watching her face as he spoke, “never yells. But it’s worse that way, somehow. He has a voice like an icy wind when he loses his temper, which isn’t often. I’ve seen him look at men who were about to start fights and back them down. One of our ancestors was a French fur trader up in Canada. Our grandmother used to say Winthrop takes after him.”

“He has expressive eyes,” she agreed, glancing at Gerald warily. “He doesn’t want me here, you know.”

His shoulders rose and fell. “He’s buried himself up here for three solid years,” he said irritably, staring into his coffee. “No company, except these hunting parties that he tolerates because it gives some variety to his life. No women. No dating. He’s avoided women like the plague since Deanne left him. He uses that limp like a stick, have you noticed?” he asked, lifting troubled eyes to hers. “It isn’t all that bad, and he could walk well enough if he cared to try, but it’s as if he needs it to remind him that women are treacherous.”

“I’d heard that he was something of a playboy in his younger days,” she probed, curious about Winthrop in new and exciting ways.

“He was,” Gerald agreed with a faint, musing smile. “He broke hearts right and left. But Deanne liked him because he was a new experience. I don’t think she really meant to hurt him. She was young and he spoiled her, and she liked it. But when he got hurt, she had visions of being tied to a cripple for life, and she ran. Winthrop was shattered by the experience. His black pride couldn’t deal with the humiliation of being lamed and deserted, all at once.”

“Poor man,” she said gently, and meant it.

“Don’t make that mistake, either,” he cautioned quietly. “Don’t ever pity him. He’s steel clean through, and if you give him half an opening, he’ll make a scapegoat of you. Don’t let him hurt you, Nicky.”

She colored delicately. “You think he might?”

“I think you attract him,” he said bluntly. “And I have a feeling that you aren’t immune to him, either. He doesn’t like being vulnerable, so look out.”

Hours later, when she went up to bed, she was still turning that threat over in her mind. She could picture Winthrop behind her closed eyes, and the image made her sigh with mingled emotions. She’d never felt so empty before, so alone. She wanted him in ways that she’d never dreamed she could want a man. She wanted to be with him, to share with him, to ease his hurt and make him whole again. She didn’t quite know how to cope with the new and frightening sensations. Nicky had her own scars and she didn’t want involvement any more than Winthrop did. But there was something between them. Something that was new and a little frightening, and like an avalanche, she couldn’t stop it.

She was almost asleep when she heard slow steps coming past her door. She knew from the sound that it was Winthrop, and her heart beat faster as he passed her room. Odd, how deeply she could be touched just by his step. She wondered if he was as curious about her as she was about him, despite his understandably deep distrust of women. He was like her, in so many ways, hiding from a world that had been cruel to him. They had more in common than he seemed to realize. Or perhaps he did realize it, and was drawing back because he didn’t trust her. She closed her eyes as she heard a door close down the hall. In no time at all, she was asleep, secure because the master of the house was back, and she was safe.

CHAPTER THREE

Winthrop’s horses attracted Nicole immediately, even though he’d given her a terse warning at breakfast about going too close to them. One of the happiest memories of her childhood was watching old Ernie at her home in Kentucky as he worked the thoroughbreds when they were ready to be trained.

Besides his saddle horses, mostly quarter horses, Winthrop had at least two thoroughbreds with unmistakably Arabian ancestry, judging by their small heads. All American thoroughbreds, she remembered, were able to trace their ancestry to one of three Arabian horses imported into England in the late 1600s and early 1700s: Byerley Turk, Godolphin Barb and Queen Anne.

Winthrop’s horses had the exquisite conformation and sleek lines that denoted thoroughbreds, too. She’d watched them during her brief stroll around the stables and corral. One was a mare about to foal, the other a full stallion, both with sleek chestnut coats and exquisite conformation. She’d wanted to ask Winthrop about them over scrambled eggs and steak that morning, but he’d been unapproachable. Frozen over, in fact, and she knew why without even being told. He didn’t want her too close, so he was freezing her out.

She’d finished her two hours in the study, taking dictation from Gerald, and now cozy and warm in tailored gray slacks and a white pullover sweater, she was lazing around the corral looking for the horses. The stallion was there, but she didn’t see the mare anywhere.

A noise from inside the big barn caught her attention. She couldn’t see inside, but it sounded like a horse’s whinny of pain. It was followed by a particularly virulent curse from a voice she recognized immediately.

She darted into the dim warmth of the big barn, down the neat corridor between the stalls that was covered with pine shavings.

“Winthrop?” she called quickly.

“In here.”

She followed his voice to the end stall. The mare was down on her side, making snuffling sounds, and Winthrop was bending over her, his sleeves rolled up, bareheaded, scowling.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, glancing at him.

“Brilliant observation,” he muttered, probing at the mare’s distended belly with tender, sure hands. “This is her first foal and it’s a breech, damn the luck! Go get Johnny Blake and tell him I said to come here, I can’t do this alone. He’ll be—”

“The mare will be dead by the time I find him,” she said matter-of-factly. She eased into the stall, ignoring Winthrop as she gently approached the mare, talking softly to her with every step. While Winthrop watched, scowling, she slid down to her knees beside the beautiful, intelligent creature, watching the silky brown eyes all the while. She sat down then, reaching out to stroke the mare. And slowly, she eased under the proud head and slowly coaxed it onto her knees. She drew her fingers gently over the velvety muzzle, talking softly to the mare, gentling her.

“She’ll let you help her now,” she told Winthrop softly, never taking her eyes from the mare’s.

“Yes,” he said, watching her curiously for a few seconds before he bent to his task. “I believe she might. You’ll ruin that fancy sweater,” he murmured as he went to work.

“Better it than lose the foal,” she said, and smiled at the mare, talking gently to her all along, smoothing the long mane, cuddling the shuddering head, as Winthrop slowly worked to help the colt in its dark cradle. She knew instinctively that the mare would realize that she was trying to help, and not hurt her.

Minutes later, guided by patient, expert lean hands, hind fetlocks appeared suddenly, followed rapidly by the rest of the newborn animal. Winthrop laughed softly, triumphantly, as the tiny new life slid into the hay and he cleared its nostrils.

“A colt,” he announced.

Nicole smiled at him over the mare, amazed to find genuine warmth in his dark eyes. “And a very healthy one, too,” she agreed. Her eyes searched his softly, and then she felt herself beginning to tremble at the intensity of his level gaze. She drew her gaze away and stroked the mare again before she got slowly to her feet so that the new mother could lick her colt and nuzzle it.

“A thoroughbred, isn’t he?” she replied absently, her eyes on the slick colt being lovingly washed by his mother. “The stallion has a superior conformation. So does the mare. He might be a champion.”

“The stallion is by Calhammond, out of Dame Savoy,” he said, frowning as he moved away to wash his hands and arms in a bucket of water with a bar of soap, drying them on a towel that hung over it. “How did you know?”

“Kentucky is racehorse country,” she laughed, sidestepping the question. She didn’t want to tell him how much she knew about thoroughbreds, although she’d certainly given herself away just now, and she’d have to soft-pedal over it. “I cut my teeth on thoroughbreds. I used to beg for work around them, and one of the trainers took pity on me. He taught me a lot about them. You see, one of the biggest racing farms in Lexington was near where I lived—Rockhampton Farms.” Actually Rockhampton was her grandfather’s name; her mother’s people had owned the stables there for three generations. But it wouldn’t do to admit that to Winthrop, because he’d connect it with Dominic White, who was her father and the current owner. He might even know Dominic, because he entertained sportsmen, and her father was one of the best.

“I’ve heard of it,” Winthrop told her after a minute. He turned, staring hard at her with dark, curious eyes as he rolled down the sleeves of his brown Western shirt and buttoned the cuffs with lazy elegance. White. Her name was White. Wasn’t that the name of that jet-setting sportsman from Kentucky who was coming with the Eastern hunting party? Yes, by God it was, and Dominic White owned Rockhampton Farms. He lifted his head. “The owner of Rockhampton is a White,” he said in a direct attack, watching closely for reaction. “Any kin of yours?”

She held on to her wits with a steely hand. She even smiled. “White is a pretty common name, I’m afraid,” she said. “Do I look like an heiress?”

“You don’t dress like one,” he commented, with narrowed eyes. “And I guess you wouldn’t be working for Gerald if you had that kind of money,” he said finally, relaxing a little. He didn’t want her, but it was a relief all the same to know that she wasn’t some bored little rich girl looking for a good time. He couldn’t have borne going through that again. “I’ve been to Kentucky, but I’ve never been on the White place. My stallion and mare came from the O’Hara place.”

“Yes, Meadowbrook Farms,” she murmured. She could have fainted with relief. She didn’t want him to know about her background. Of course, there was always the danger that he might someday find out that she was one of those Whites, but with any luck she’d be back in Chicago before he did, and it wouldn’t matter anymore. Right now, the important thing was to get her boss well and not upset him with any confrontations between herself and Winthrop.

Winthrop had every reason to hate rich society girls, and he might be tempted to make her life hell if he knew the truth. And probably it would be worse because she hadn’t told him about it in the beginning. Her character would be even blacker in his eyes for the subterfuge. For one wild instant, she considered telling him. But she knew she couldn’t. He disliked her enough already. And it was suddenly important, somehow, to keep him from finding new reasons to dislike her. It did occur to her that someday he might hate her for not being truthful with him. But she’d discovered a tender streak in his turbulent nature while he was working with the mare, and she wanted to learn more about that shadowy side of him. That might not be possible if he knew the truth about her.

“I couldn’t have managed that alone,” he said quietly, watching her. “I’m obliged for the help.”

“I like horses,” she said simply. “And he’s a grand colt.”

“His father has been a consistent winner, but he was hurt in a race last year. I bought him to stand at stud rather than see him put down. I had a lot of money that was lying spare, so I developed an interest in racehorses. I’ve spent a good deal of time at racetracks in the past year.”

Another chink in the armor, she thought, thinking about his compassion for the stallion as she looked up at him.

He saw that speculative gleam and it irritated him. She wasn’t working out the way he’d expected. She had too many interesting qualities, and he didn’t like the feelings she aroused in him. He’d buried his emotions, and she was digging down to them with irritating ease.

“You don’t like me, do you?” she asked bluntly. “Why? Is it because I’m plain, or because I’m only a secretary …”

“You aren’t plain,” he said unexpectedly, his dark eyes tracing the soft oval of her face. Big green eyes. Pretty mouth. High cheekbones. Skin like satin, creamy and young. She was young. He sighed wistfully. “And I’m no snob. I just don’t want women around.”

“That’s straightforward,” she said softly. “And I hope it won’t offend you if I speak as bluntly. I know a little about what happened to you and why. I’m very sorry. But hating me and making my life miserable for the next few weeks isn’t going to erase your scars. It will only create new ones for both of us. So can’t we be sporting enemies?” she asked, her green eyes twinkling. “And I’ll promise not to seduce you in the hay.”

His eyebrows shot straight up. Unexpected wasn’t the word for this little firecracker. He’d have to think up a new one.

“What do you know about seduction, Red Riding Hood?” he asked with blithe humor, and she got a tiny glimpse of the man he’d been before the accident.

“Not much, actually,” she said pleasantly, “but that’s probably in your favor, because it will save you a lot of embarrassing moments. Just imagine if I were experienced and sophisticated and out to sink my claws into you!”

Her earnestly teasing expression made him feel as if he were sipping potent wine. He had a hard time drawing his eyes away from her soft mouth and back up to her laughing eyes. Incredibly long lashes, on those eyes. Sexy. Like the rest of her. She was tall, but she wasn’t overly thin. He liked the way she looked in tailored slacks and that white sweater. Both were thick with horsehair about now, and she’d smell of horse….

“She’ll want some water now,” she reminded him, unnerved by that slow, bold scrutiny and hoping that it didn’t show.

It did. His chin lifted just a little, in a purely male way, and his chiseled mouth twitched. “Nervous of me?”

“If all the gossip I’ve heard about you is true, I have good reason to be, and that isn’t conceit on my part,” she added proudly. “Playboys don’t usually mind who they charm, because it’s all a game to them.”

The light in his eyes went out, like a cavern succumbing to darkness. “I don’t play games with virgins, honey,” he said unexpectedly, catching her chin with a lean, steely hand. “And you’d better remember it. I’ve forgotten more about lovemaking in my time than you’ve ever learned, but I’m not low enough to take out my hurt on you.”

He was so close that she could feel the strong warmth of him. Her heart ran wild. She’d never had such a powerful, immediate reaction to a man before. Not even to Chase. This was new and wildly exciting, and she wanted more.

“How do you know that … about me?” she whispered, shocked that he could so easily discuss the most intimate subjects.

“I don’t know,” he replied quietly, searching her soft eyes. His blood warmed in his veins, and he felt his heartbeat slowly increase. Her scent was overpowering, drowning him, seducing his senses. He knew a lot about her, knowledge that only instinct could have supplied.

Her lips parted on a rush of breath. The dimness of the barn was warm and cozy, shutting them away from the world. Winthrop was closer than ever, towering over her, drowning her in a narcotic kind of hunger.

She took an involuntary step toward him. “I … don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice shaking. One slender hand went hesitantly to his chest and pressed against it, feeling the shock of warm muscle and a spongy wiriness that might have been hair underneath. She felt him tense, even before his hand came up to remove hers with abrupt impatience.

“Don’t do that,” he ground out, glaring at her. “I don’t want your hands on me.”

Her own forwardness shocked her more than his irritable statement. She turned away, feeling a rush of tears that she couldn’t let him see.

“I’d better get back to the house,” she said quickly. “Your brother was going to make a phone call and then finish his dictation. I’m glad the mare’s okay.” She said it all in a mad rush and threw a vague smile in his direction before she went out of the barn as if her shoes were on fire.

He watched her go with mingled emotions. Anger. Irritation. Hunger. Frustration. He couldn’t sort them out, so he didn’t bother. He went back to feed and water the mare and see about the colt. Damn women everywhere, he thought, and limped more than usual as he went about his business.

Nicole made a point of avoiding her boss’s unpredictable brother for the rest of the day. But there was no getting away from him at the supper table, and she had to fight not to look at him.

Cleaned up and freshly shaved, wearing a white shirt that suited his darkness, he would have drawn any woman’s eyes. It was easy to see how he’d appealed to women when he was younger. He was still a striking man, and it wasn’t just his looks. There was an indefinable something about him, a vibrant masculinity that was almost tangible and certainly overpowering at close range. Her hands trembled just sitting next to him at the long table.

Gerald was quoting figures on some real estate he’d acquired, and Winthrop was listening with barely half his mind. He was watching Nicky while he pared his steak and chewed it deliberately, trying not to let her know that he was watching her. She was wearing that gray jersey dress that clung so lovingly to her curves, and the memory of the effect she’d had on him in the barn wasn’t doing his appetite any good.

He finally grew impatient with her downbent head and stopped eating and just stared at her intently while Gerald went on talking without realizing that he was talking to himself.

Nicole felt that intent stare and looked up into Winthrop’s dark eyes. And her heart stopped beating.

Electricity danced between them. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his, any more than his were willing to be tugged away. The look they exchanged was long and piercing and shattering in its intensity. It was as personal as a kiss, so steady and unblinking that she felt her body tremble in intimate response to his blatant interest.

His gaze held hers for a shuddering moment, and then it dropped to her mouth, and she felt her lips part helplessly for him.

“Winthrop, are you listening?” Gerald asked suddenly, breaking the silence when he discovered that his brother was apparently staring into space.

“What?” Winthrop turned back to him. “Something about real estate values?” he asked absently. He didn’t like the way his body responded to that look in Nicole’s eyes. He was going to have to do something. But what?

Nicole was having as difficult a time with her own body. She shifted restlessly and drank coffee that was, by now, hopelessly oversugared. While Winthrop’s dark eyes had been openly making love to hers, she’d put six spoons of sugar in the black liquid. She took a sip and shuddered and left it in favor of the glass of water Mary had provided for each of them. So much for common sense. It was time to retreat.

For the next few days, she and Winthrop avoided each other—ignored each other—to the extent that everybody noticed, and Mary began asking gentle questions that Nicole smiled at and avoided answering. And that might have gone on for another week if she hadn’t tripped on the steps coming in from a walk late one afternoon, to be caught by Winthrop in the gathering darkness.

He’d apparently just come in from the corral himself. He smelled of cattle and he needed a shave, but his arms in the sheepskin jacket felt strong and warm, and instead of pulling away like a sensible girl, Nicole had sighed and relaxed against his tall, strong body.

Winthrop muttered something, but he didn’t push her away. His hard arms contracted, drawing her against him under the unbuttoned jacket, and he stood holding her in the dusky light, savoring her softness, his cheek against her dark hair.

It seemed so natural, somehow. So right. His eyes closed and all the reasons why he shouldn’t allow her this close vanished. He didn’t make a sound, and neither did she. The wind sang through the tall lodgepole pines, whispered through the aspen and maples, whipped her hair against her flushed cheek. She pressed closer with a tiny, inarticulate sound, too hungry for the contact to listen to the warning bells going off in her head. He was warm and strong, and it was sheer delight to be held by him. She felt her body tremble with exquisite pleasure.

“We could hurt each other badly,” he whispered in her ear, his voice deep and soft and slow. “You don’t have the experience to understand the risk, and I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t take out old hurts on you, even though I wouldn’t do it consciously. This is crazy.”

“Yes.”

He nuzzled his cheek against her hair. “I mean it, Nicky.”

She sighed, reluctantly drawing away from him. She looked up, curious, excited. “Afraid of me, cattle baron?” she asked softly.

“In a way,” he agreed unexpectedly, but he wasn’t smiling. He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers in a soft caress. “I don’t like to start things I can’t finish.”

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