Diana Palmer Texan Lovers

She turned away with a groan of anguish. “If you can bear my company, I’ll fix you a glass of iced tea.”

He hesitated, but only for an instant. “I could use that,” he said quietly. “It’s hot as hell out there.”

He followed her inside, absently closing the door behind him. But he stopped dead when he saw what she was having to contend with. He stiffened and almost cursed out loud.

There were only two rooms in the makeshift apartment. They were bare except for a worn sofa and chair, a scratched coffee table and a small television set. Her clothes were apparently being kept in a closet, because there was no evidence of a dresser. The kitchen boasted a toaster oven and a hot plate and a tiny refrigerator. This, when she was used to servants and silk robes, silver services and Chippendale furniture.

“My God,” he breathed.

Her back stiffened, but she didn’t turn when she heard the pity in his deep voice. “I don’t need sympathy, thank you,” she said tightly. “It wasn’t my fault that we lost the place, it was my father’s. It was his to lose. I can make my own way in the world.”

“Not like this, damn it!” He slammed his hat down on the coffee table and took the pitcher of tea out of her hands, moving it aside. His lean, work-roughened hands held her wrists and he stared down at her with determination. “I won’t stand by and watch you try to survive in a rattrap like this. Barry Holman and his charity be damned!”

Shelby was shocked, not only by what he was saying, but by the way he looked. “It’s not a rattrap,” she faltered.

“Compared to what you were used to, it is,” he returned doggedly. His chest rose and fell on an angry sigh. “You can stay with me for the time being.”

She blushed beet-red. “In your house, alone with you?”

He lifted his chin. “In my house,” he agreed. “Not in my bed. You won’t have to pay me for a roof over your head. I do remember with vivid clarity that you don’t like my hands on you.”

She could have gone through the floor at the bitter mockery in the words. She couldn’t meet those black eyes or challenge the flat statement without embarrassing them both. Anyway, it was so long ago. It didn’t matter now.

She looked at his shirt instead, at the thick mat of black hair under the white silk. He’d let her touch him there, once. The night of their engagement, he’d unbuttoned it and given her hands free license to do what they liked. He’d kissed her as if he’d die to kiss her, but he’d frightened her half out of her mind when the kisses went a little too far.

Until that night, he’d never tried to touch her, or gone further than brief, light kisses. His holding back had first disturbed her and then made her curious. Surely Justin was as experienced as his brother, Calhoun. But perhaps he’d had hang-ups about the distance between their social standing. Justin had been barely middle class at the time, and Shelby’s family was wealthy. It hadn’t mattered to her, but she could see that it might have bothered Justin. And especially after she jilted him, because of her father’s treacherous insistence.

She’d gotten even with her father, though. He’d planned for her to marry Tom Wheelor, in a cold-blooded merger of property, and Justin had gotten in the way. But Shelby had refused Tom Wheelor’s advances and she’d never let him touch her. She’d told Bass Jacobs she wouldn’t marry his wealthy young friend. The old man hadn’t capitulated then, but just before his death, when he realized how desperately Shelby loved Justin, he’d felt bad about what he’d done. He hadn’t told her that his guilt had driven him to stake Justin’s feedlot, but he’d apologized.

She looked up then, searching Justin’s dark eyes quietly, remembering. It had been hard, going on without him. Her dreams of loving him and bearing his sons had died long ago, but it was still a pleasure beyond bearing just to look at him. And his hands on her wrists made her body glow, tingle with forbidden longings, like the warm threat of his powerful, cologne-scented body. If only her father hadn’t interfered. Inevitably, she’d have been able to explain her fears to Justin, to ask him to be gentle, to go slow. But it was too late now.

“I know you don’t want me anymore, Justin,” she said gently. “I even understand why. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself.”

He breathed slowly, trying to keep himself under control. The feel of her silky skin was giving him some problems. Unwillingly, his thumbs began to caress her wrists.

“I know that,” he said. “But you don’t belong here.”

“I can’t afford a better apartment just yet,” she said. “But I’ll get a raise when I’ve been working for two months, and then maybe I can get the room that Abby had at Mrs. Simpson’s.”

“You can get it now,” he said tersely. “I’ll loan you the money.”

She lowered her eyes. “No. It wouldn’t look right.”

“Only you and I would know.”

She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t tell him that she hated the thought of being in this place, so near Barry Holman, who was a nice boss but a hopeless womanizer. She hesitated.

Before she could say yes or no, there was a knock on the door. Justin let her go reluctantly and watched her move toward the door.

Barry Holman stood there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, blond and blue-eyed and hopeful. “Hi, Shelby,” he said pleasantly. “I thought you might need some help moving…in.” His voice trailed away and he saw Justin standing behind her.

“Not really,” Justin said with a cold smile. “She’s on her way over to Mrs. Simpson’s to take on Abby’s old room. I’m helping her move, although I knew she appreciated the offer of this—” he looked around distastefully “—apartment.”

Barry Holman swallowed. He’d known Justin for a long time, and he was just about convinced that the rumors he’d heard were true. Justin might not want Shelby himself, but he was damned visible if anybody else made a pass at her.

“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I’d better get back downstairs then. I had some calls to make. Good to see you again, Justin. See you early Monday morning, Shelby.”

“Thanks anyway, Mr. Holman,” she said. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but Mrs. Simpson offers meals as well, and it’s peaceful there.” She smiled. “I’m not used to town living, and Mrs. Simpson has the room free right now…”

“No hard feelings, you go right ahead.” Barry grinned. “So long.”

Justin glared after him. “Lover boy,” he muttered. “Just what you need.”

She turned, her eyes soft on his face. “I’m twenty-seven,” she said. “I want to marry and have children eventually. Mr. Holman is very nice, and he doesn’t have any bad habits.”

“Except that he’ll sleep with anything that wears skirts,” he replied tersely. He didn’t like thinking about Shelby having another man’s children. His black eyes searched over her body. Yes, she was getting older, not that she looked it. In eight or ten years, children might be a risk for her. His expression hardened.

“He’s never said anything improper to me.” She faltered, confused by the way he was looking at her.

“Give him time.” He drew in a slow breath. “I said I’ll loan you enough to get the room at Mrs. Simpson’s. If you’re hell-bent on independence, you can pay me back at your convenience.”

She had to swallow her pride, and it hurt to let him help her when she knew how bitter he was about the past. But he was a caring man, and she was a stray person in the world. Justin’s heart was too big to allow him to turn his back on her, even after what he thought she’d done to him. Quick, hot tears sprang to her green eyes as she remembered what she’d been forced to say to him, the way she’d hurt him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said unexpectedly, biting her lip as she turned away.

The words, and the emotion behind them, surprised him. Surely she didn’t have any regrets this late. Or was she just putting on an act to get his sympathy? He couldn’t trust her.

She got herself back together and brushed at the loose hair at her neck as she poured the tea into two glasses filled with ice. “I’ll let you lend me the money, if you really don’t mind,” she said, handing him his glass without looking up. “I don’t like the idea of living alone.”

“Neither do I, Shelby, but it’s something you get used to after a while,” he said quietly. He sipped his tea, but he couldn’t pry his eyes away from her soft oval face. “What is it like, having to work for a living?”

She didn’t react to the mockery in the words. She smiled. “I like it,” she said surprisingly, and lifted her eyes to his. “I had things to do, you know, when we had money. I belonged to a lot of volunteer groups and charities. But law offices cater to unhappy people. When I can help them feel a little better, it makes me forget my own problems.”

His black brows drew together as he sipped the cool, sweet amber liquid. The glass was cold under his lean fingers.

She searched his black eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you, Justin?” she asked perceptively. “You saw me as a socialite, a reasonably attractive woman with money and a cultured background. But that was an illusion. You never really knew me.”

“I wanted you, though,” he replied, watching her. “But you never wanted me, honey. Not physically, at any rate.”

“You rushed me!” she burst out, coloring as she remembered that night.

“Rushed you! Up until that night, I hadn’t even kissed you intimately, for God’s sake!” His black eyes glittered at her as he remembered her rejection and his own sick certainty that she didn’t love him. “I’d kept you on a pedestal until then. And all the time, you were sleeping with that boy millionaire!”

She threw up her hands. “I never slept with Tom Wheelor!”

“You said you did,” he reminded her with a cold smile. “You swore it, in fact.”

She closed her eyes on a wave of bitter regret. “Yes, I said it,” she agreed wearily, and turned away. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“And all the postmortems accomplish nothing, do they?” he asked. He put down the glass and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it without removing his eyes from her stiff expression. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s go. I’ll run over to Mrs. Simpson’s and you can see about the room.”

Shelby knew that he’d never give an inch. He hadn’t forgotten anything and he still despised her. She felt as if the world was sitting on her thin shoulders as she got her purse and followed him to the door. She didn’t look at him as they left.

Chapter Two

Justin tucked a wad of bills into Shelby’s purse when he stopped the Thunderbird on the side of the road near Mrs. Simpson’s house. She tried to protest, but he simply smoked his cigarette and ignored her.

“I told you earlier that the money was between you and me,” he said quietly, his dark eyes challenging as he cut the engine. He turned in the bucket seat, his long legs stretched out as he touched the power-window switch on the console panel. It was a rural road, and sparsely traveled. He had stopped under a spreading oak tree. He hooked his elbow on the open window to study Shelby narrowly. “I meant it. If you want to look on it as a loan, that’s up to you.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “I’ll be able to pay you back one day,” she said doggedly, even though she knew better. With what she made, it was going to be a struggle to eat and pay the rent. New clothes might become impossible.

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Yes, but I am.” She looked up, all her misgivings in her green eyes. “Oh, Justin, what am I going to do?” she moaned. “I’m alone for the first time in my life. Ty’s in Arizona, I have no family…” She got a grip on herself, averting her eyes. “It’s just panic,” she said tightly. “Just fear. I’ll get used to it. I’m sorry I said that.”

He didn’t speak. He’d never seen Shelby helpless. She’d always been poised and calm. It was new and faintly disturbing to see her frightened.

“If things get too rough,” he replied quietly, “you can move in with me.”

She laughed hollowly. “That would do our reputations a world of good.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke. “If gossip bothers you all that much, we can get married.” He said it carelessly, but his eyes were sharp on her face.

She knew she wasn’t breathing. She looked at him as the old wounds opened with a vengeance. “Why?” she asked.

He didn’t want to answer her. He didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he was still vulnerable. He shrugged. “You need a place to stay. I’m tired of living alone. Since Abby and Calhoun moved out, the damned house is like a mausoleum.”

“You feel sorry for me,” she accused.

He took another draw from the cigarette. “Maybe I do. So what? Right now you don’t have many options. Either you borrow from me to afford Mrs. Simpson’s boarding house, or you marry me.” He studied the tip of the cigarette. “Of course, you can always go back to that converted storeroom over Barry Holman’s office and show him that you’re available—”

“You stop that,” she muttered. She shifted restlessly. “Mr. Holman isn’t that kind of man. And you have no reason to feel possessive about me.”

“Haven’t I?” His black eyes searched hers. “But I am, just the same. And I remember your saying the same thing about me. We were engaged once, Shelby. That kind of involvement doesn’t go away.”

“Some involvement,” she said with a tired sigh. “I never could decide why you wanted to marry me.”

“You were a feather in my cap,” he said coldly, lying through his teeth. “A rich sophisticate. I was just a country boy with stars in my eyes, and you took me for a hell of a ride, lady. Now it’s my turn. I’ve got money and you haven’t.” His dark eyes narrowed. “And don’t think I want to marry you out of some lingering passion.”

He hadn’t forgotten. It was in his eyes, his whole look. He’d marry her and make her hunger for a love he’d never felt, couldn’t feel for her. He held her in contempt because he thought she’d slept with Tom Wheelor, and that was the biggest joke of all. She was still a virgin, and wouldn’t it throw a stick into his spokes to find that out the hard way?

“No.” She sighed, belatedly answering his question. “I’m not stupid enough to think you still want me, after what I did to your pride.” She lifted her eyes to study the proud, arrogant set of his dark head, his eyes shadowed by the Stetson he always wore. “I used to think you cared for me a little, even though you never said you did.”

That was the truth. She’d never really been sure why he wanted to marry her. Except for that one night, he hadn’t been wild to try to get her into bed, and he’d never seemed emotionally involved, either. But she’d been so in love with him that she had not realized how relatively uninvolved he’d seemed until after their engagement had been broken.

He ignored her remarks. “If you want security, I can give it to you,” he said quietly. “I’ve got money now, although I’ll never be in the same class as your father was. He had millions.”

She closed her eyes on a wave of shame. She had her father and her own naïveté to thank for Justin’s bitterness. But Justin wanted revenge and she’d be a fool to deliver herself on a silver platter to him. “No, Justin. I can’t marry you,” she said after a minute. Her hand reached for the door handle. “It was a crazy idea!” She averted her face so that all he could see of it was her profile.

He put his hand over hers briefly, holding it, and then withdrew his fingers almost as quickly. His expression hardened. “It’s a big house,” he said. “With Calhoun and Abby living down the road, there’s only Lopez and Maria living with me. You wouldn’t need to work if you didn’t want to, and you’d have security.”

He was offering her heaven, except that it was impersonal on his part. More than anything else, he felt sorry for her. But under the pity was a darker need; she could feel it. Something in him wanted revenge for her rejection six years ago. His pride wanted restitution. Well, didn’t she owe him that, she wondered bitterly, after what her father had cost him? And she’d be near him. She’d have meals with him. She could sit with him in the evenings while he watched television. She could sleep under the same roof. Her hungry heart wanted that, so badly. Too badly.

“I don’t guess you’d…I don’t suppose you’d ever want a…” She couldn’t even say it. A child, she was thinking, although God only knew how she’d manage to deal with what had to happen to produce one.

“I won’t want a divorce,” he said, misunderstanding her thoughts. His eyes narrowed. “I’m not exactly Mr. America, in case you haven’t noticed. And I don’t want a woman I have to buy, unless it’s on my terms.”

That sounded suspiciously like a dig at her, because she’d refused him for what he thought was a lack of money. Her eyes lifted to his. “Do you still hate me, Justin?” she asked; she needed to know.

He stared at her without speaking for a long moment, quietly smoking his cigarette. “I’m not sure what I feel.”

That reply was honest enough, even if it wasn’t a declaration of undying love. There were so many wounds between them, so much bitterness. It was probably an insane thing to do, but she couldn’t resist the temptation.

She stared at his cigarette instead of at him. “I’ll marry you, then, if you mean it.”

He didn’t move, but something inside him went wild at the words. She couldn’t know how many nights he’d spent aching for just the sight of her, how desperately he wanted her near him. But he could never trust her again, and that was the hell of it. She was just a stray person, he told himself. Just someone who needed help. He had to think of her that way, and not want the moon. She might even play up to him out of gratitude, so he’d have to be on his guard every minute. But, oh, God, he wanted her so!

“Then we don’t need to see Mrs. Simpson until we’ve had time to make plans.” He started the car, pulled out onto the road and turned the Thunderbird toward the feedlot and his house. His hands had a perceptible tremor. He gripped the steering wheel hard to keep Shelby from seeing how her answer affected him.

If Maria and Lopez were shocked to see Shelby with Justin, they didn’t say anything. Lopez vanished into the kitchen while Maria fussed over Shelby, bringing coffee and pastries into the living room where Justin sprawled in his armchair and Shelby perched nervously on the edge of the sofa.

“Thank you, Maria,” Shelby said with a warm smile.

The Mexican woman smiled back. “It is my pleasure, señorita. I will be in the kitchen if you need me, señor,” she added to Justin before she went out, discreetly closing the door behind her.

Shelby noticed that Justin didn’t comment on Maria’s obvious conclusions. Perhaps Maria thought he might want to wrestle her down onto the sofa, but Shelby knew better. Justin had done that once, and only once. And she’d been so frightened that she’d reacted stupidly. She’d never forgiven herself for that. Justin had probably thought she found his ardor distasteful, and that was the last thing it had been.

She sighed, lowering her eyes to his black boots. They weren’t working boots; they were the ones he wore when he dressed up. He had such big feet and hands. She smiled, remembering how it had been when they’d first started dating. They’d been like children, fascinated with each other’s company, both of them a little shy and reserved. It had never gone beyond kisses except the night they got engaged.

“I said, do you want some coffee?” Justin repeated pointedly, holding the silver coffeepot over a cup he’d just filled.

“Oh. Yes, thank you.” She took it black, and apparently he remembered her preference, because he didn’t offer her any cream or sugar. He poured his own cup full, put a dash of cream in it and sat back with the china cup and saucer balanced on his crossed knee.

Shelby glanced at him and wondered how she could contemplate living under the same roof with him. He was so unapproachable. Obviously he wanted revenge. She’d be a fool to give him that much rope to hang her with.

On the other hand, if she was living with him, she had a better chance than ever of changing his mind about her. All she really had to do to prove her innocence was to get him into bed. But that was the whole problem. She was scared to death of intimacy.

“Why the blush?” he asked, watching her.

She cleared her throat. “It’s warm in here,” she said.

“Is it?” He laughed mirthlessly and sipped his coffee. “In case you wondered, you’ll have your own room. I won’t expect any repayment for giving you a home.”

The blush went scarlet. She had to fight not to fling her cup at him. “You’re making me sound like a charity case.”

“I’ll bet that rankles,” he agreed. “But Tyler can’t help you and hold down a job at the same time. And you’ll never make it on what Holman pays you, with all due respect to him. Secretaries in small towns don’t make much.”

“I’m not mercenary,” she said defensively.

“Sure,” he replied. He sipped his coffee without another word.

“Listen, Justin, it was all my father’s idea, that fake engagement to Tom Wheelor—”

“Your father would never have done that to me,” he interrupted coldly, and his eyes went black, threatening as he leaned forward. “Don’t try to use him for a scapegoat just because he’s dead. He was one of the best friends I had.”

That’s what you think, she mused bitterly. Obviously it wasn’t going to do any good to talk to him. Just because her father had put on a show of liking him was no reason to put the man on a pedestal. God only knew why Justin had such respect for a man who’d caused him years of bitter humiliation.

“You’ll never trust me again, will you?” she asked softly.

He studied her lovely face, her pale green eyes staring at him, her gaze burning into his soul. “No,” he replied with the honesty that was as much a part of him as his craggy face and thick black hair. “There’s too much water under the bridge. But if you think I’m nursing a broken heart, don’t. I found you out just a little too soon. My pride suffered, but you never touched my heart.”

“I don’t imagine any woman ever got close enough to do that,” she said, her voice soft. She traced the rim of the china cup. “Abby told me once that you haven’t dated anyone for a long time.”

“I’m thirty-seven years old,” he reminded her. “I sowed my wild oats years ago, even before I started going with you.” He finished his coffee and put the cup down. His black eyes met hers in a direct gaze. “And we both know that you’ve sown yours, and who with.”

“You don’t know me at all, Justin,” she said. “You never did. You said I was a status symbol to you, and looking back, I guess I was, at that.” She laughed bitterly. “You used to take me around to your friends to show me off, and I felt like one of those purebred horses Ty used to take to the steeplechase.”

He stared at her over his smoking cigarette. “I took you around because you were pretty and sweet, and I liked being with you,” he said heavily. “That was a lot of garbage about wanting you for a status symbol.”

She leaned back wearily. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “But I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?” She finished her coffee and put the cup down. “Are we going to have a church wedding?” she asked.

“Aren’t we a little old for that kind of ceremony?” he asked.

“I can see you’re still eating live rattlesnakes to keep your venom potent,” she said without flinching. “I want a church wedding.”

He dusted the long ash from his cigarette into an ashtray. “It would be quicker to go to a justice of the peace.”

“I’m not pregnant,” she reminded him, averting her self-conscious face. “There’s no great rush, is there?”

She was tying him up in knots. He glared at her. “All right, have your church wedding. You can stay at Mrs. Simpson’s until we’re married, just to keep everything discreet.” His dark eyes narrowed as he got up and crushed out his cigarette. “There’s just one thing. Don’t you come down that aisle in a white dress. If you dare, I’ll walk out the front door of the church and keep going.”