Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  The phone was ringing even as she got in the door, and she grabbed up the receiver as if it were a life preserver.

  "Hello?" she said breathlessly.

  "I'll be by in an hour. You hadn't forgotten?" Donavan drawled.

  "How could I?" she asked, adding mischievously, "I love Chinese food."

  He chuckled. "That puts me in my place, I guess. See you."

  He hung up and Fay ran to dress. The only thing in her closet that would suit a fairly casual evening out was a pale green silk suit and she hated wearing it. It screamed big money, something sure to set Don­avan's teeth on edge. But other than designer jeans and a silk blouse, or evening gowns, it was all she had. The cotton pantsuit she'd worn to work today was just too wrinkled and stained to wear out tonight. It wouldn't have been suitable anyway.

  She teamed the silk suit with a nice cotton blouse and sat down to wait, after renewing her makeup. She only hoped that he wasn't going to take one look at her and run. If he didn't throw her over entirely, she was going to have to invest in some medium-priced clothing!

  Chapter Four

  Just as Fay had feared, Donavan's first glimpse of her silk suit brought a scowl to his face.

  "It's old," she said inadequately, and looked mis­erable. She locked her fingers together and stared at him with sadness all over her face.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and a blue blazer with them, a black Stetson cocked over one eye and matching boots on his feet. He looked nice, but hardly elegant or wealthy. Her silk suit seemed to point out all the differences between the life-style she was used to, and his own.

  "You look very nice," he said quietly.

  "And very expensive," she added on a curt laugh. "I'm sorry."

  "Why?"

  "I didn't want you to think I wore this on pur­pose," she said, faltering.

  He lifted an eyebrow and smiled mockingly. "I'm taking you out for a Chinese dinner. A proposal of marriage doesn't come with the egg roll."

  She blushed furiously. "I know that."

  "Then why bother about appearances?" He shrugged. "A date is one thing. A serious relation­ship is something else." His silver eyes narrowed. "Let's settle that at the outset. I have nothing serious or permanent in mind. Even if we wind up as the hottest couple in town between the sheets, there still won't be anything offered in the way of commit­ment."

  "I knew that already," she said, steeling herself not to react to the provocative statement.

  "Good." He glanced around the apartment, frowning slightly. "This is pretty spartan, isn't it?" he asked, suddenly realizing how frugally she seemed to be living.

  "It's all I could afford on my salary," she told him. She wrapped her arms across her breasts and smiled. "I don't mind it. It's just a place to sleep."

  "Henry doesn't help you financially?" he per­sisted.

  "He can't," she explained. "He's got his own fi­nancial woes. I'll be fine when he turns over my affairs to Mr. Holman and I can get to my trust."

  Donavan didn't say a word, but suddenly he was beginning to see things she apparently didn't. If Henry was having money problems, surely his con­trol of Fay's estate would give him the means of solving them, even if he had to pay her back later. The fact that he was suffering a reversal didn't bode well for Fay, but she seemed oblivious. Perhaps like most rich women she didn't know or care much about handling money.

  He was aware that he'd been silent a long time. He took his hands out of his pockets and caught her slender fingers in his. They were cold, like ice. “We'd better go," he said, drawing her along with him.

  Fay had never realized how exciting it could be to hold hands with a man. He linked her fingers into his as they walked, and she felt the sensuous con­traction all the way to her toes. It was like walking on a cloud, she thought. She could almost float.

  Donavan was feeling something similar and fight­ing it tooth and nail. He hadn't really wanted this date at all, but something stronger than his will had forced him into it. Fay was a delicious little morsel, full of contradictions. He'd always liked puzzles. She was one he really wanted to solve, even if his incli­nation was to get her into the nearest bed with all possible haste.

  She had to be experienced. She'd never denied that. He wondered if pampered rich boys were as anemic in bed as they seemed when he saw them at board meetings. His contempt for the upper classes was, he knew, a result of his father's ruthless greed.

  He could still barely believe the whole episode, his father running pell-mell after a woman half his age when his wife of twenty years was just barely in her grave. It had disgusted and shocked him, and led to a confrontation of stellar proportions. He hadn't spoken to his father afterward, and his presence at his father's funeral two years later was only a nod to convention. It wasn't until much later that he'd learned why Rand Langley had been so ruthless. It had been to save the family ranch, which had been Langley land for three generations. Not that it ex­cused what he'd done, but it did at least explain it. Rand had wanted Donavan to inherit the ranch. Mar­rying money had been the only way he could keep it.

  "You're very quiet," Fay remarked on the way to Houston. "Are you sorry you asked me out?"

  He glanced at her. "No. I was remembering."

  "Yes?"

  He was smoking one of the small cigars he fa­vored, his gray eyes thoughtful as they lingered on the long road ahead. "My father disgraced himself to marry money, to keep the ranch for me and my children, if I ever have any. Ironic, that I've never married and never want to, because of him."

  She folded her hands primly in her lap. It flattered her that he was willing to tell her something so per­sonal.

  "If you don't have children, what will happen to your ranch?" she asked.

  "I've got a ten-year-old nephew," he said. "My sister's boy. His father's been dead for years. My sister remarried three years ago, and she died last year. Her husband got custody. But he's just remar­ried, and last month he stuck Jeffrey in a military school. The boy's in trouble constantly, and he hates his stepfather." He took a long draw from the cigar, scowling. "That's why I was sitting in that bar the night you walked in. I was trying to decide what to do. Jeff wants to come out here and live with me."

  "Can't he?"

  He shook his head. "No chance. His father and I don't get along. He'd more than likely refuse just to get at me. His new wife is pregnant and he doesn't seem to care about Jeff at all."

  "That's sad," she said. "Does he miss his mother?"

  "He never talks about her."

  "Probably because he cares too much," she said. "I miss my parents," she added unexpectedly. "They died in a plane crash. Even if I never saw much of them, they were still my parents."

  "What do you mean, you never saw much of them?"

  She laughed softly. "They liked traveling. I was in school, and they didn't want to interrupt my ed­ucation. I stayed at home with an elderly great-aunt. She liked me very much, but it was kind of lonely. Especially during holidays." She stared out the win­dow, aware of his curious stare. "If I ever have kids, I’ll be where they are," she said suddenly. "And they won't ever have to spend Christmas without me."

  "I suppose," he began slowly, "there are some things money won't buy."

  "An endless list," she agreed. "Beginning and ending with love."

  He chuckled softly, to lighten the atmosphere. He glanced sideways at her. "Money can buy love, you know," he murmured.

  "Well, not really," she disagreed. "It can buy the illusion of it, but I wouldn't call a timed session in bed 'love.'"

  He burst out laughing. "No," he said after a min­ute. "I don't suppose it is. They say that type of experience is less than satisfying. I wouldn't know. I couldn't find any pleasure in a body I had to pay for."

  "I can understand that."

  There was a pleasant tension in the silence that dropped between them. Minutes later, Donavan pulled up in front of a Chinese restaur
ant and cut off the engine.

  "This is it," he said. He helped her out of the car and escorted her inside.

  It was a very nice restaurant, with Chinese music playing softly in the background and excellent ser­vice.

  Donavan watched her covertly as he sampled the jasmine tea the waitress had served. "Tell me about your job. How does it feel to work for a living?"

  Her eyes brightened and she smiled. "I like it very much," she confessed. "I've never been responsible for my own life before. I've always had people tell­ing me what to do and how to do it. The night I met you at the bar really opened my eyes. You made me see what my life was like, showed me that I could change it if I wanted to. I wasn't kidding when I said you turned my world around."

  "I thought the job was a means to an end," he confessed, smiling at his own folly. "I've been chased before, and by well-to-do women who saw me as a challenge."

  "You're not bad looking," she said demurely, averting her eyes. "And you're very much a man. But I meant it when I said I wasn't chasing you. I have too much pride to behave that way."

  Probably she did. He liked her honesty. He liked the way she looked and dressed, too. She wasn't beautiful, but she was elegant and well-mannered, and she had a big heart. He found himself wondering how Jeff would react to her.

  They ate in a pleasant silence and talked about politics and the weather, everything except them­selves. All too soon it was time to start back for Jacobsville.

  "How are you and your uncle getting along?" Donavan asked on the way back.

  "We speak and not much more. Uncle Henry's worried about something," she added. "He gets more nervous by the day."

  He'd never thought of her uncle as a nervous man. Perhaps it had something to do with Fay's inheri­tance.

  "Suppose you inherit only a few dollars and an apology?" he asked suddenly.

  She laughed. "That isn't likely."

  "But if it was?"

  She thought about it seriously. "It would be hard," she confessed. "I'm not used to asking the price of anything, or denying myself a whim pur­chase. But like anything else, I expect I could get used to it. I don't mind hard work."

  He nodded. That would make her life easier.

  He turned off onto a farm road just at the outskirts of Jacobsville.

  "Where are we going?" she asked, glancing around at unfamiliar terrain.

  "I'm going to show you my ranch," he said sim­ply. His eyes lanced over her and he smiled wick­edly. "Then I'm going to shove you into the hen­house and have my way with you."

  "Do you have a henhouse?" she asked excitedly.

  "Yes. And a flock of chickens to go with it. I like fresh eggs."

  He didn't add that he often had to budget in be­tween cattle sales, even on the good salary he made.

  "I guess you have your own beef, too?" she asked.

  "Not for slaughter," he replied. "I like animals too much to raise one to kill. Mesa Blanco has slaughter cattle, but I don't spend any more time around them than I have to."

  The picture she was getting of him didn't have a lot to do with the image he projected. An animal lover with a core of steel was unusual.

  "Do you have dogs and cats?"

  He smiled slowly. "And puppies and kittens," he said. "I give them away when the population gets out of control, and most of mine are neutered. It's criminal to turn an unneutered animal loose on the streets." He slowed as the road curved toward a sim­ple white frame house. "Ever had a dog or cat of your own?"

  "No," she said sadly. "My parents weren't animal lovers. My mother would have fainted at the thought of cat hair on her Louis Quinze furniture." "I'd rather have the cat than the furniture," he remarked.

  She smiled. "So would I." His heart lifted. She wasn't at all what he'd ex­pected. He pulled up in front of the ranch house and cut off the engine.

  There were flowers everywhere, from shrubs to trees to beds of them right and left around the porch. She could see them by the fierce light of the almost-full moon. "How beautiful!" she exclaimed. "Thank you." "You planted them?"

  "Nobody else. I like flowers," he said defensively as he got out and helped her out of the car.

  "I didn't say a word," she assured him. "I like flowers, too."

  He unlocked the front door while she glanced cov­etously along the long front porch at the old-fashioned swing and rocking chair. Somewhere nearby cattle made pleasant mooing noises. "Do you keep a lot of cattle here?" she asked. "I have purebred Santa Gertrudis," he told her. "Stud cattle, not beef cattle."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?" she teased. He laughed, standing aside to let her enter the house.

  The living room was done in Early American, and it looked both neat and lived-in. For a bachelor, he was a good housekeeper. She said so.

  "Thanks, but I can't take all the credit. My fore­man's wife looks after things when I can't."

  She was insanely jealous of the foreman's wife, all at once.

  He saw her expression and smiled. "She's fifty and happily married."

  She blushed, moving farther into the room.

  "Look out," he warned.

  Before the words went silent, her foot was at­tacked by a tiny ball of fur with teeth.

  "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, laughing. "A miniature tiger!" she kidded.

  "I'm training her to be an attack cat. I call her Bee."

  "Bee?"

  He grinned. "Short for Beelzebub. You can't imagine what she did to the curtains a day or so ago."

  She reached down and picked up the tiny thing. It looked up at her with a calico face and the softest, most loving blue-green eyes she'd ever seen, with black fur outlining them.

  "Why, she's beautiful!" she exclaimed.

  "I think so."

  The kitten's eyes half closed as it began to purr and knead her jacket with its tiny paws.

  "She'll pick that silk," he said, reaching for the kitten.

  She looked at him curiously. "That doesn't mat­ter," she said, surprised by his comment.

  His silver eyes registered his own surprise as they looked deeply into hers. "That suit must have cost a small fortune," he persisted. He extricated the kitten, despite her protests, and carried it into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  "Want some coffee?" he asked.

  "That would be nice."

  "It will only take a minute or so." He tossed his hat onto the hat rack and went into the kitchen.

  Fay wandered around the living room, stopping at a photograph on the mantel. It was of a young boy, a studio pose. He looked a lot like Donavan, except that his eyes were dark, and he had a more rounded face. He looked sad.

  "That's Jeff," he told her from the doorway. He leaned against it, waiting for the coffee to brew. His long legs were crossed, like his arms, and he looked very masculine and sexy with his jacket off and the top buttons of his shirt unfastened over a thicket of jet black hair.

  "He favors you," she remarked. "Did your sister look like you?"

  "Quite a lot," he said. "But her eyes were darker than mine. Jeff has his father's eyes."

  "What does he like?" she asked. "I mean, is he a sports fan?"

  "He doesn't care much for football. He likes mar­tial arts, and he's good at them. He's a blue belt in tae kwon do—a Korean martial art that concentrates on kicking styles."

  "Isn't that a demonstration sport in the summer Olympics?" He smiled, surprised. "Yes, it is. Jeff hopes to be able to participate in the 1996 summer games in At­lanta."

  "A group of Atlantans worked very hard to get the games to come there," she recalled. "One of my friends worked in the archives at Georgia Tech—a lot of the people on campus were active in that com­mittee."

  "You don't have many friends here, do you?" he asked.

  "Abby Ballenger is a friend," she corrected. "And I get along well with the girls at the office."

  "I meant friends in your own social class."

  She put the picture of Jeff back on the mantel. "I
never had friends in my own social class. I don't like their idea of fun."

  "Don't you?"

  He moved closer. His hands slid around her waist from behind and tugged her against him. His cheek nuzzled hers roughly. "What was their idea of fun?"

  "Sleeping around," she said huskily. "That's... suicidal these days. All it takes is the wrong partner and you can die."

  "I know." His lips slid down her long, elegant neck. His tongue tip found the artery at her throat and pressed there, feeling it accelerate wildly at his touch. His fingers slid to her slender hips and dug in, welding her to his hard thighs.

  "Donavan?" she whispered unsteadily.

  His hands flattened on her stomach, making odd little motions that sent tremors down her long legs and a rush of warmth into her bloodstream.

  She didn't act very experienced. The camouflage was only good at long range, he thought as he drank in the gardenia scent of her skin. He should have been disappointed, because he'd wanted her badly tonight. But something inside him was elated at his growing suspicion that she was innocent. He had to find out if it was true.

  "Turn your mouth up for me, Fay," he whispered at her chin. "I want to taste it under my own."

  The words sent thrills down to her toes and curled them. Blind, deaf, she raised her face and turned it, feeling the sudden warm pressure of his mouth on her parted lips.

  It wasn't at all what he'd expected. The contact was explosive. He'd been in complete control until he touched her. Now, suddenly he was fighting to keep his head at all. He turned her in his arms and caught his breath as he felt her body melt hungrily into his.

  It shouldn't have happened like this. He could barely think. His hands bit into the backs of her thighs and lifted her, pulled at her, needing the close contact as he'd never needed anything. His legs be­gan to tremble as his body went taut and capable, and his hands became ruthless.

  Fay moaned. Never at any time in her life had she felt such a sudden, vicious fever of longing. She could always pull back, until now. With a tiny gasp, she lifted her arms around his neck and gave in com­pletely. She felt him against her stomach, knew that he was already painfully aroused. She couldn't man­age enough willpower to deny him, whatever the cost, whatever the risk. He was giving her a kind of pleasure she'd never dreamed of experiencing.