Reckless Passion

by Stephanie James

  "I always like to interview my clients extensively before establishing a financial plan for them," Dara said smoothly, eyes glinting.

  "As I said, you should have let me take you straight home." He smiled. "I could have given you a much clearer insight into my character."

  "Who is supposed to be seducing whom?" Dara's laughing eyes hardened a fraction.

  "You're right," Yale said, instantly apologetic. "I'm being much too aggressive, aren't I?"

  "I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment," Dara said kindly, sitting back slightly as the English beer arrived. She watched him pay the cocktail waitress and then continued charmingly, "I don't seduce po­tential clients—physically, that is. I prefer the intel­lectual approach. Makes for a better long-term work­ing relationship."

  "The intellectual approach?" He looked skeptical as he poured the foaming beer into a tall glass. "You're going to wow me with your brilliant market strategy?"

  "Something like that. After all, if I bring my taxes to you to prepare I'm going to want some assurance you can at least use a calculator."

  "Meaning it wouldn't matter how good I am in bed?" he said wistfully, sipping his beer.

  Dara gave him a haughty look, torn between laugh­ter and the need to put him in his place. Already the polite, conservative image was slipping away. She had been right to force him gently out of his adopted element in an effort to discover what lay below the surface, but it suddenly occurred to her that what she uncovered might not be quite so manageable. At least in the guise of conservative accountant, Yale Ransom could be easily dealt with.

  "Meaning you ought to have some interest in my ability as a stockbroker!"

  "I'll find out soon enough, won't I?" he countered.

  "You're going to give Edison, Stanford and Zane your account?" she pressed.

  "Probably. This is a small town. It's not as if I had a great deal of choice," he said smoothly.

  "True." She grinned wickedly.

  "What remains to be seen is whether or not I get you for my personal broker."

  "Surely you're not going to tell me that will de­pend on how agreeable I am tonight?'' Dara said loft­ily, daring him to come right out and proposition her.

  As she had expected, Yale backed down from a direct confrontation on the subject. Something flick­ered and was gone in the hazel eyes, and she nodded to herself, satisfied.

  "I didn't think so," she said sweetly. "Now, are you going to dance with me?"

  "I already feel rather out of place just sitting here,'' he complained ruefully, glancing over at the packed dance floor. "I'd feel an absolute idiot out there!"

  "Give it a try, Yale. Please?"

  "Where did you learn to pout so endearingly?" he inquired wryly.

  "I'm not pouting, I'm being persuasive!" Dara snapped, slightly miffed at the comment.

  "I beg your pardon," he said quickly, laughter in the hazel eyes. "I didn't mean to imply you were one of those annoying females who gets her way by threatening to sulk."

  "Yes, you did, but I'm going to ignore it. I'm too anxious to get you out onto the dance floor."

  "Why?" Yale tossed her an unexpectedly stark look which vanished almost immediately.

  "Because I like to dance, of course. Why do you think I brought you here?" Dara smiled dazzlingly.

  "You wanted to make me feel uncomfortable? Out of my element?" he guessed coolly.

  "No!" But there was a trace of guilt behind the word, and Dara was afraid she might not have hidden it with complete success. She did want to jar him a little, watch him react to a situation where he could not hide behind his image. She felt an almost reckless urge to find out what lay behind that conservative, Southern-gentleman exterior.

  "You're a little old to be playing games like this, aren't you?" Yale asked after a moment's thought.

  "Games! I'm not playing games! You asked me to leave the party with you and then you asked me where I wanted to go dancing. I've been nothing but straight-forward about the whole thing!"

  He favored her with a narrow stare for a moment and then set down his beer abruptly. "All right. We'll dance."

  "Now? But they've just changed to a slow number. I wanted—"

  "You wanted to dance. I'm offering this one. Take it or leave it."

  Dara got to her feet without further argument. "It really is slipping, Yale. I feel in all fairness that I ought to warn you again," she whispered as he led her out onto the wooden floor and took her quite for­mally in his arms.

  "My gentlemanly image?" he hazarded. "It's probably not surprising. You've been provoking me all evening. I wonder why. Did you think that getting my attention like this was the best way to go about getting my account?"

  "Is it?" Dara leaned her head against his shoulder, forcing a closer intimacy than he had attempted.

  "Beats me," Yale admitted, relaxing his grip and letting his body make contact with hers. "I guess we'll find out, won't we? What's wrong with my im­age, anyway?" He sounded interested.

  "I don't know," Dara told him honestly, a slow smile quirking her mouth as she nestled her head against the expensive material of his jacket and closed her eyes. "Something about it isn't quite real."

  "You don't believe I'm really an accountant?"

  "Of course I believe you're an accountant! It's not that..."

  "Are you sleepy?" he asked suddenly, ignoring her comment.

  Gray-green eyes flickered open and she met his slightly frowning look.

  "A little. I've had a long day. Stockbrokers get up early, you know. I'm at the office by seven on week­day mornings. What's the matter? You don't like women falling asleep on your shoulder while you're dancing with them?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Then you should have danced a fast one with me. That would have perked me up considerably," Dara advised him.

  "I'll remember that. In the meantime, try not to drift off completely, will you? I feel idiotic enough out here with all these fake cowboys. Carrying you off the floor isn't going to make me feel any more at home!"

  "You sound annoyed," Dara told him, aware of the lean length of him as the dance grew a little more intimate. Strange how her soft curves seemed to fit the hardness of him. Was he responding to her? She couldn't be sure. There was an aloofness to Yale Ran­som at the moment As if he were deliberately trying to put some distance between them.

  "Do I? Does that worry you?"

  "Nope."

  "Maybe it should," he suggested dryly.

  "I'm not afraid of losing your account," Dara re­turned blithely.

  "Edison, Stanford and Zane might not appreciate your losing it!"

  "Am I in any danger of letting down the firm?" she taunted.

  "You haven't got your hands on my money yet," he reminded her with a small smile.

  "The evening's young," she teased.

  "Perhaps, but you've already admitted you're in danger of falling asleep."

  "So keep me awake. Tell me about yourself, Yale Ransom."

  "Stop snuggling!" Yale muttered feelingly. "How old are you, anyway?"

  "Too old to snuggle, I expect." Dara sighed. "I'm thirty. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-seven," he answered shortly, as if his mind were on something else. "You're not married, are you? It would be just my luck to have an irate husband come barging in."

  "Relax," she soothed. "I'm not married. Not any­more. Besides, I told you I'd take care of you in here, didn't I? Trust me."

  "Not anymore," he repeated thoughtfully. "But you were once."

  "Yes."

  "What happened?"

  "Do you really want to know?" she asked a little distantly.

  "Yes," he said with sudden conviction. "I think I do."

  "Six months into the marriage my husband real­ized he'd made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately for me, his ex-fiancée, who had broken off with him to marry another man, made the same discovery at about the same time." Dara shrugged philosophically. "It seemed my husband had been on
the rebound when he set about sweeping me off my feet. When both he and his former lover realized they'd made a tragic error, there wasn't anything for them to do except apologize profusely to their respective spouses and ask for divorces."

  There was a moment's silence above her head while Yale considered the brief story.

  "You sound remarkably understanding," he finally said quietly.

  "It all happened a long time ago," she said softly, opening her eyes to study the hard line of his jaw. "I don't think about it much anymore."

  "But you haven't remarried, either."

  "No. There are other things in life." She smiled. "What about you, Yale? Have you ever been mar­ried?"

  "Yes."

  She waited, and when no further information was forthcoming, Dara tried probing. "A long time ago?"

  "Um-hmm."

  "Before you became a Southern-gentleman ac­countant?"

  "You are an inquisitive little thing, aren't you?" he charged with a stifled groan. His hold on her tight­ened, but Dara was inclined to think that it was more in irritation than anything else.

  "I like to know my clients," she explained plac­idly, waiting with a hopeful expression for further de­tails of his past

  "So you keep saying." Yale angled his head downward, the smoky light illuminating the honey-colored, neatly trimmed hair. "Are you sure you want to know so much about me?"

  "Are you trying to warn me that I might not like what I discover?" She grinned.

  "It's a possibility."

  "Try me."

  "It's tempting."

  "I meant try telling me something about yourself!" Dara snapped tersely, mildly annoyed by his sexual interpretation of her words. Why did men always con­centrate on the physical side of a budding relation­ship? Didn't they realize that there were more impor­tant matters between a man and a woman? Matters which should be dealt with before the physical side of things was explored?

  "Oh."

  She could almost feel him thinking it over and waited impatiently for his decision.

  "Perhaps," Yale said slowly, "I ought to show you."

  "Show me?" She tipped her head quizzically to one side as the dance drew to a close and they stopped moving.

  "Mmm. How badly do you want to know me, Dara Bancroft?'' he asked almost whimsically as he led her off the floor. His arm was wrapped rather casually around her waist, but Dara liked the feel of it.

  "You make it all sound very mysterious," she countered impishly.

  "It's not. It's just that no one's ever been so insis­tent about it. In fact," he told her with sudden deci­sion, "I don't think anyone's ever even realized..."

  "Realized what?" she pressed eagerly.

  "Come on, my curious little tabby cat, and I'll show you." He grinned. The flashing gold tooth winked devilishly and Dara felt a small chill slip down her spine. What was she getting into by pushing Yale Ransom like this? One thing was certain. She couldn't stop now. She would spend the rest of her life wondering about him. She knew that much with crystal certainty.

  It was unfortunate, though, she told herself wryly as he helped her back into her coat, that he thought of her as only a curious little tabby cat.

  Without a word, Yale led her out of the glittering, rhinestone-cowboy nightclub.

  Two

  Are you crazy?" Dara laughed, half appalled as she realized their destination some fifteen minutes later. "That's a roadhouse! A truck stop! The real kind."

  "Afraid?" Yale asked succinctly, glancing at the parking lot full of trucks, large and small, and cruising on past to a point almost two blocks farther along the street.

  "Talk about feeling out of place!" Dara exclaimed, ignoring his question. "What are you trying to prove?"

  "I asked you if you were afraid."

  She thought about that for a moment. "Well, no, not exactly. Not as long as you're with me, but..."

  "I'll take that as a compliment." He grinned, park­ing the Alfa Romeo and climbing out.

  "Why are we parking way down here? There was room in the lot." Dara watched, brow wrinkling in puzzled fashion as Yale slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the seat. His tie went next.

  "Because I don't want to take a chance on coming back and finding the car door accidentally kicked in," he explained as if she weren't very bright.

  "Accidentally?" she murmured, climbing out of her side of the car and facing him across the roof. He was unbuttoning the top two buttons on his white shirt and rolling the sleeves.

  "Accidents sometimes happen around places like this." Yale grinned.

  She watched in growing fascination now as he re­moved his glasses and tucked them into a case in his shirt pocket. Then he raked a hand carelessly through his amber-shaded hair and the grin broadened. Gold gleamed in the moonlight.

  "My God!" Dara breathed, her eyes full of laugh­ter. "'If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it!"

  She turned as he walked around the hood of the car and came to stand beside her. Deliberately she ran an eye over him from head to foot.

  "I can see that only one of us is going to feel out of place here," she finally groaned, shaking her head at the transformation. "You look like you just stepped off the rodeo circuit!"

  "Don't worry about how you look," Yale told her consolingly. "I'll take care of you."

  "You'd better! Remember that I didn't let anything terrible happen to you at my nightclub!" She slipped off her coat and left it behind.

  "Trust me," he instructed, lacing her close to his side with a strangely possessive arm around her shoulders.

  Dara shot him a quick glance from under her lashes at the familiarity of the grip but said nothing. In any event, her unspoken question was answered almost as soon as they stepped inside the loud, smoky tavern. Several male heads turned to run frankly sexual gazes over her rounded curves.

  Dara felt like a prize palomino being led around an auction ring. This sort of inspection might be com­mon in taverns and nightclubs the world over, but she was accustomed to it being performed in a more sub­tle manner. The crowd here was not subtle.

  But the interested eye always came to a halt when they took in the sight of the sinewy arm anchoring her to Yale's side. After one last, assessing glance at her companion most of the eyes turned back to other subjects, such as the beer on the table or the sultry female lead singer with the band. With a wry grimace, Dara admitted that the possessiveness in Yale's hold was purely for her own protection.

  "I suppose there's a point to all this?" she forced herself to say flippantly as Yale found a table and settled her into a chair.

  "My bringing you here? You asked for it. Remem­ber that," he went on with a touch of grimness. "Whatever happens tonight, you asked for it!"

  Some of her laughter fading, Dara stared at him. "Are you angry with me?"

  He stared back for another moment. "I can't decide whether I am or not."

  Dara bit her lip, suddenly contrite. Her gray-green eyes widened in genuine apology. "Yale, I'm sorry if I've made you show me something you didn't want to show me about yourself. I never meant—"

  "Didn't you?" he asked cryptically, signalling the blond waitress for two beers. American beers, Dara realized vaguely. That was the only sort the bar fea­tured.

  “Well, I admit I was curious.'' She sighed ruefully. "But I still don't understand everything. What's the big mystery? That you're at home in places like this? What did you do for a living before you became an accountant?"

  He leaned back in his chair and studied her anxious expression. Dara would have given a great deal to know exactly what he was thinking.

  "A lot of things," he finally said evenly, his eyes intent.

  "You weren't raised on a charming, picture-book plantation with lots of history and money and the right Southern schools, were you?" Dara risked, her eyes smiling across the table at him. She willed him to respond, but he continued to watch her with that implacable gaze.

  "Not quite," he sa
id absently, fishing out cash for the impatient waitress. When she'd left with a fat tip, Yale finally seemed to come to a decision. "I was raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Know them?"xxx

  "North Carolina? Somewhere around Asheville?" At least he was talking, she thought hopefully.

  He nodded.

  "So?"

  "So—" Yale drew a deep breath as if about to plunge into a cold pool—"I've spent a lot of time and effort leaving those damn mountains and all they stood for behind me. I've put a couple of thousand miles between me and them, as well as a college ed­ucation and a better accent. I've changed almost ev­erything I could change, and over the past several years I've built a very successful image. Then you come along and in the space of a couple of hours tear through all my fine plumage demanding to know the real me."

  "I see," Dara whispered, guilt rising now that she began to realize exactly what she'd done. "But I don't understand why you bothered. You could have told me to mind my own business. You didn't have to ask me to leave the party with you. You didn't—"

  "I don't know why I did it, myself," Yale said quietly. "Would you like to dance?"

  "Yale, I think we ought to talk about this first," Dara began earnestly. "I mean, everyone knows that part of the country has a lot of poverty, but I don't see why you should be so determined to forget you came from there. Everyone also knows the mountain people have a lot of pride and courage and—"

  "Are you going to dance with me or not?" he in­terrupted as if she hadn't spoken.

  Dara sighed. He wasn't in the mood for a philo­sophical discussion of his origins. That much was ob­vious.

  "Yes, I'd like to dance," she said softly, getting to her feet

  The band slipped into a twanging waltz, the singer crying out a song of unfaithful men who spent their nights in taverns like this one and left their women alone at home.

  "I thought the mountain music was more of the bluegrass type," Dara couldn't resist saying as Yale took her into his arms.

  "Sorry. This was as close as I could get. I'm sure the band knows a few bluegrass tunes," Yale told her shortly.

  There was silence between them as they moved round the floor to the country waltz. Dara tried to think of something to say, anything to break the strange mood she had created. At least Yale was hold­ing her closer now, she told herself with determined cheer. He might be a little angry at her, but he wasn't trying to keep her at a physical distance the way he had earlier. Nestling her head against his shoulder, she took advantage of that small concession.