Passion Flower

by Diana Palmer

  The wind bit into her face, her hair came loose from its neat bun. She closed her eyes and began to pray. The jolting pressure was hurting, actually jarring her bones. If only she could keep from falling off!

  She heard a second horse gaining on them, then, and she knew that everything would be all right. All she had to do was hold on until Everett could get to her.

  But at that moment, the runaway gelding came to a fence and suddenly began to slow down. He balked at the fence, but Jennifer didn’t. She sailed right over the animal’s head to land roughly on her back in the pasture on the other side of the barbed wire.

  The breath was completely knocked out of her. She lay there staring up at leaves and blue sky, feeling as if she’d never get a lungful of air again.

  Nearby, Everett was cursing steadily, using words she’d never heard before, even from angry clients back in New York City. She saw his face come slowly into focus above her and was fascinated by its paleness. His eyes were colorful enough, though, like brown flames glittering at her.

  “Not...my...fault,” she managed to protest in a thin voice.

  “I know that,” he growled. “It was mine. Damned rattler, and me without my gun...”

  “It didn’t...bite you?” she asked apprehensively, her eyes widening with fear.

  He blew out a short breath and chuckled. “No, it didn’t. Sweet Jenny. Half dead in a fall, and you’re worried about me. You’re one in a million, honey.”

  He bent down beside her. “Hurt anywhere?” he asked gently.

  “All over,” she said. “Can’t get...my breath.”

  “I’m not surprised. Damned horse. We’ll put him in your next batch of chili, I promise,” he said on a faint smile. “Let’s see how much damage you did.”

  His lean, hard hands ran up and down her legs and arms, feeling for breaks. “How about your back?” he asked, busy with his task.

  “Can’t...feel it yet.”

  “You will,” he promised ruefully.

  She was still just trying to breathe. She’d heard of people having the breath knocked out of them, but never knew what it was until now. Her eyes searched Everett’s quietly.

  “Am I dead?” she asked politely.

  “Not quite.” He brushed the hair away from her cheeks. “Feel like sitting up?”

  “If you’ll give me a hand, I’ll try,” she said huskily.

  He raised her up and that was when she noticed that her blouse had lost several buttons, leaving her chest quite exposed. And today of all days she hadn’t worn a bra.

  Her hands went protectively to the white curves of her breasts, which were barely covered.

  “None of that,” he chided. “We don’t have that kind of relationship. I’m not going to embarrass you by staring. Now get up.”

  That was almost the final blow. Even half dressed, he still couldn’t accept her as a woman. She wanted to sit down on the grass and bawl. It wouldn’t have done any good, but it might have eased the sudden ache in her heart.

  She let him help her to her feet and staggered unsteadily on them. Her pale eyes glanced toward the gelding, now happily grazing in the pasture across the fence.

  “First,” she sputtered, “I’m going to dig a deep pit. Then I’m going to fill it with six-foot rattlesnakes. Then I’m going to get a backhoe and shove that stupid horse in there!”

  “Wouldn’t you rather eat him?” he offered.

  “On second thought, I’ll gain weight,” she muttered. “Lots of it. And I’ll ride him two hours every morning.”

  “You could use a few pounds,” he observed, studying her thinness. “You’re almost frail.”

  “I’m not,” she argued. “I’m just puny, remember? I’ll get better.”

  “I guess you already have,” he murmured dryly. “You sure do get through the housework.”

  “Slowly but surely,” she agreed. She tugged her blouse together and tied the bottom edges together.

  When she looked back up, his eyes were watching her hands with a strange, intent stare. He looked up and met her puzzled gaze.

  “Are you okay now?” he asked.

  “Just a little shaky,” she murmured with a slight grin.

  “Come here.” He bent and lifted her easily into his arms, shifting her weight as he turned, and walked toward the nearby gate in the fence.

  She was shocked by her reaction to being carried by him. She felt ripples of pleasure washing over her body like fire, burning where his chest touched her soft breasts. Even through two layers of fabric, the contact was wildly arousing, exciting. She clamped her teeth together hard to keep from giving in to the urge to grind her body against his. He was a man, after all, and not invulnerable. She could start something that she couldn’t stop.

  “I’m too heavy,” she protested once.

  “No,” he said gently, glancing down into her eyes unsmilingly. “You’re like feathers. Much too light.”

  “Most women would seem light to you,” she murmured, lowering her eyes to his shirt. Where the top buttons were undone, she saw the white of his T-shirt and the curl of dark, thick hair. He smelled of leather and wind and tobacco and she wanted so desperately to curl up next to him and kiss that hard, chiseled mouth...

  “Open the gate,” he said, nodding toward the latch.

  She reached out and unfastened it, and pushed until it came free of the post. He went through and let her fasten it again. When she finished, she noticed that his gaze had fallen to her body. She followed it, embarrassed to find that the edges of her blouse gapped so much, that one creamy pink breast was completely bare to his eyes.

  Her hand went slowly to the fabric, tugging it into place. “Sorry,” she whispered self-consciously.

  “So am I. I didn’t mean to stare,” he said quietly, shifting her closer to his chest. “Don’t be embarrassed, Jenny.”

  She drew in a slow breath, burying her red face in his throat. He stiffened before he drew her even closer, his arms tautening until she was crushed to his broad, warm chest.

  He didn’t say a word as he walked, and neither did she. But she could feel the hard beat of his heart, the ragged sigh of his breath, the stiffening of his body against her taut breasts. In ways she’d never expected, her body sang to her, exquisite songs of unknown pleasure, of soft touches and wild contact. Her hands clung to Everett’s neck, her eyes closed. She wanted this to last forever.

  All too soon, they reached the horses. Everett let her slide down his body in a much too arousing way, so that she could feel the impact of every single inch of him on the way to the ground. And then, his arms contracted, holding her, bringing her into the length of him, while his cheek rested on her hair and the wind blew softly around them.

  She clung, feeling the muscles of his back tense under her hands, loving the strength and warmth and scent of him. She’d never wanted anything so much as she wanted this closeness. It was sweet and heady and satisfying in a wild new way.

  Seconds later, he let her go, just as she imagined she felt a fine tremor in his arms.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  “Yes,” she said, trying to smile, but she couldn’t look up at him. It had been intimate, that embrace. As intimate as a kiss in some ways, and it had caused an unexpected shift in their relationship.

  “We’d better get back,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “So have I,” she said quickly, mounting the gelding with more apprehension than courage. “All right, you ugly horse,” she told it. “You do that to me again, and I’ll back the pickup truck over you!”

  The horse’s ears perked up and it moved its head slightly to one side. She burst into laughter. “See, Rett, he heard me!”

  But Everett wasn’t looking her way. He’d already turned his mount and was smokin
g another cigarette. And all the way back to the house, he didn’t say a word.

  As they reached the yard she felt uncomfortably tense. To break the silence, she broached a subject she’d had on her mind all day.

  “Rett, could I have a bucket of paint?”

  He stared at her. “What?”

  “Can I have a bucket of paint?” she asked. “Just one. I want to paint the kitchen.”

  “Now, look, lady,” he said, “I hired you to cook and do housework and type.” His eyes narrowed and she fought not to let her fallen spirits show. “I like my house the way it is, with no changes.”

  “Just one little bucket of paint,” she murmured.

  “No.”

  She glared at him, but he glared back just as hard. “If you want to spend money,” he said curtly, “I’ll buy you a new pair of jeans. But we aren’t throwing money away on decorating.” He made the word sound insulting.

  “Decorating is an art,” she returned, defending her professional integrity. She was about to tell him what she’d done for a living, but as she opened her mouth, he was speaking again.

  “It’s a high-class con game,” he returned hotly. “And even if I had the money, I wouldn’t turn one of those fools loose on my house. Imagine paying out good money to let some tasteless idiot wreck your home and charge you a fortune to do it!” He leaned forward in the saddle with a belligerent stare. “No paint. Do we understand each other, Miss King?”

  Do we ever, she thought furiously. Her head lifted. “You’d be lucky to get a real decorator in here, anyway,” she flung back. “One who wouldn’t faint at the way you combine beautiful old oriental rugs with ashtrays made of old dead rattlesnakes!”

  His dark eyes glittered dangerously. “It’s my house,” he said coldly.

  “Thank God!” she threw back.

  “If you don’t like it, close your eyes!” he said. “Or pack your damned bag and go back to Atlanta and turn your nose up...”

  “I’m not turning my nose up!” she shouted. “I just wanted a bucket of paint!”

  “You know when you’ll get it, too, don’t you?” he taunted. He tipped his hat and rode off, leaving her fuming on the steps.

  Yes, she knew. His eyes had told her, graphically. When hell froze over. She remembered in the back of her mind that there was a place called Hell, and once it did freeze over and made national headlines. She only wished she’d saved the newspaper clipping. She’d shove it under his arrogant nose, and maybe then she’d get her paint!

  She turned to go into the house, stunned to find Eddie coming out the front door.

  He looked red-faced, but he doffed his hat. “Mornin’, ma’am,” he murmured. “I was just putting the mail on the table.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” she said with a wan smile.

  He stared at her. “Boss lost his temper, I see.”

  “Yep,” she agreed.

  “Been a number of days before when he’s done that.”

  “Yep.”

  “You going to keep it all to yourself, too, ain’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  He chuckled, tipped his hat, and went on down the steps. She walked into the house and burst out laughing. She was getting the hang of speaking Texan at last.

  Chapter Five

  JENNIFER SPENT the rest of the day feverishly washing down the kitchen walls. So decorators were con artists, were they? And he wouldn’t turn one loose in his home, huh? She was so enraged that the mammoth job took hardly any time at all. Fortunately, the walls had been done with oil-based paint, so the dirt and grease came off without taking the paint along with them. When she was through, she stood back, worn out and damp with sweat, to survey her handiwork. She had the fan going full blast, but it was still hot and sticky, and she felt the same way herself. The pale yellow walls looked new, making the effort worthwhile.

  Now, she thought wistfully, if she only had a few dollars’ worth of fabric and some thread, and the use of the aging sewing machine upstairs, she could make curtains for the windows. She could even buy that out of her own pocket, and the interior-decorator-hating Mr. Everett Donald Culhane could just keep his nasty opinions to himself. She laughed, wondering what he’d have said if she’d used his full name while they were riding. Bib had told her his middle name. She wondered if anyone ever called him Donald.

  She fixed a light supper of creamed beef and broccoli, remembering that he’d told her he hated both of those dishes. She deliberately made weak coffee. Then she sat down in the kitchen and pared apples while she waited for him to come home. Con artist, huh?

  It was getting dark when he walked in the door. He was muddy and tired-looking, and in his lean, dark hand was a small bouquet of slightly wilted wildflowers.

  “Here,” he said gruffly, tossing them onto the kitchen table beside her coffee cup. The mad profusion of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush and Mexican hat made blue and orange and red swirls of color on the white tablecloth. “And you can have your damned bucket of paint.”

  He strode past her toward the staircase, his face hard and unyielding, without looking back. She burst into tears, her fingers trembling as they touched the unexpected gift.

  Never in her life had she moved so fast. She dried her tears and ran to pour out the pot of weak coffee. She put on a pot of strong, black coffee and dragged out bacon and eggs and flour, then put the broccoli and chipped beef, covered, into the refrigerator.

  By the time Everett came back down, showered and in clean denims, she had bacon and eggs and biscuits on the table.

  “I thought you might like something fresh and hot for supper,” she said quickly.

  He glanced at her as he sat down. “I’m surprised. I was expecting liver and onions or broccoli tonight.”

  She flushed and turned her back. “Were you? How strange.” She got the coffeepot and calmly filled his cup and her own. “Thank you for my flowers,” she said without looking at him.

  “Don’t start getting ideas, Miss King,” he said curtly, reaching for a biscuit. “Just because I backed down on the paint, don’t expect it to become a habit around here.”

  She lowered her eyes demurely to the platter of eggs she was dishing up. “Oh, no, sir,” she said.

  He glanced around the room and his eyes darkened, glittered. They came back to her. He laid down his knife. “Did you go ahead and buy paint?” he asked in a softly menacing tone.

  “No, I did not,” she replied curtly. “I washed down the walls.”

  He blinked. “Washed down the walls?” He looked around again, scowling. “In this heat?”

  “Look good, don’t they?” she asked fiercely, smiling. “I don’t need the paint, but thank you anyway.”

  He picked up his fork, lifting a mouthful of eggs slowly to his mouth. He finished his supper before he spoke again. “Why did it matter so much about the walls?” he asked. “The house is old. It needs thousands of dollars’ worth of things I can’t afford to have done. Painting one room is only going to make the others look worse.”

  She shrugged. “Old habits,” she murmured with a faint smile. “I’ve been fixing up houses for a long time.”

  That went right past him. He looked preoccupied. Dark and brooding.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked suddenly.

  He sighed and pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “I found that on the hall table on my way upstairs.”

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  “A notice that the first payment is due on the note I signed at the bank for my new bull.” He laughed shortly. “I can’t meet it. My tractor broke down and I had to use the money for the payment to fix it. Can’t plant without the tractor. Can’t feed livestock without growing feed. Ironically, I may have to sell the bull to pay back the money.”

&
nbsp; Her heart went out to him. Here she sat giving him the devil over a bucket of paint, and he was in serious trouble. She felt terrible.

  “I ought to be shot,” she murmured quietly. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss about the paint, Rett.”

  He laughed without humor. “You didn’t know. I told you times were hard.”

  “Yes. But I didn’t realize how hard until now.” She sipped her coffee. “How much do you need...can I ask?” she asked softly.

  He sighed. “Six hundred dollars.” He shook his head. “I thought I could swing it, I really did. I wanted to pay it off fast.”

  “I’ve got last week’s salary,” she said. “I haven’t spent any of it. That would help a little. And you could hold back this week’s...”

  He stared into her wide, soft eyes and smiled. “You’re quite a girl, Jenny.”

  “I want to help.”

  “I know. I appreciate it. But spend your money on yourself. At any rate, honey, it would hardly be a drop in the bucket. I’ve got a few days to work it out. I’ll turn up something.”

  He got up and left the table and Jennifer stared after him, frowning. Well, she could help. There had to be an interior-design firm in Houston, which was closer than San Antonio or Austin. She’d go into town and offer her services. With any luck at all, they’d be glad of her expert help. She could make enough on one job to buy Everett’s blessed bull outright. She was strong enough now to take on the challenge of a single job. And she would!

  As luck would have it, the next morning Eddie mentioned that his wife, Libby, was going to drive into the city to buy a party dress for his daughter. Jennifer hitched a ride with her after Everett went to work.

  Libby was a talker, a blond bearcat of a woman with a fine sense of humor. She was good company, and Jennifer took to her immediately.

  “I’m so glad Everett’s got you to help around the house,” she said as they drove up the long highway to Houston. “I offered, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said I had enough to do, what with raising four kids. He even looks better since you’ve been around. And he doesn’t cuss as much.” She grinned.