by Diana Palmer
“Beyond my wildest dreams,” he said coldly, lifting the cigarette to his lips. “I ruined both your lives.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. He sounded bitter, anguished. “What could you have done that would have changed anything?” she asked calmly. “I would never have married Bruce. I didn’t love him, and he knew it.”
He glanced at her. “Maybe if I hadn’t made a dead set at you, he’d have had a chance.”
She shook her head firmly. “Not that way.”
His eyes held hers for an instant before they returned to the road. “Didn’t you ever want him?”
“Not physically. He was good fun; a nice, undemanding companion. I didn’t want affairs, like some of the girls did. The fact that he had money never made him any more special to me. I like making my own way.” She leaned her head against the seat and studied his uneven features quietly. “At least you never suspected me of being a gold-digger.”
“I knew better,” he said with a faint smile. “I tried to buy you off at first, if you remember. You took the check straight to Bruce and handed it to him in front of me. That cured me.”
“And surprised you, I guess.”
He nodded. “I’d thought I had you pegged. And I never really knew you at all.” He turned onto the long ranch road that led back to Staghorn, down a driveway that boasted rough wood fenceposts, electrified fencing and mesquite groves everywhere among bare, leafless trees. “I thought you’d been to bed with half-a-dozen men. I got the shock of my life that night.”
She felt her face growing warm. They shared such intimate memories, for two old enemies.
“Erin, why did you give in to me?” he asked unexpectedly. “You must have suspected what I was doing.”
She looked at him, admiring the play of muscles in his arms as he manipulated the car along the dirt road. “Yes,” she replied after a moment. “I suspected it.”
“Then why give in? Were you really so trusting that you didn’t realize what I had in mind?”
“I was too far gone to care,” she said quietly, avoiding his suddenly piercing gaze. “I’d never felt like that with a man. I didn’t want you to stop. By the time I was fully aware of what I was doing, it was much too late to say no.”
“I would have stopped if you’d asked me, all the same,” he said, jerking the wheel as he turned up toward the house.
“You couldn’t have.”
He pulled up at the front steps and turned to her. “I could have,” he said firmly. “I wasn’t that far gone until the last few seconds.”
Her face went beet red as he looked at her, because she remembered those last few seconds with shocking clarity.
“You pulled me down to you,” he said in a tone that was husky and deep, and unfamiliar. “I knew that your body was rejecting me, and why, and I was just starting to pull back. And you reached up to my hips and dug those long, exquisite nails into me, and I was lost.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to reply and failed, and he touched her lips with the very tip of his finger, probing them delicately apart so he could see the pearly whiteness of her teeth.
“I didn’t even give you pleasure,” he continued roughly. “I took you, used you, and you should have hated me for it. But you didn’t. Your eyes were like velvet—so soft that I got lost in them. And I wanted to do it again, to try and make it right. But I started thinking about Bruce, and some things he’d said…and I was afraid to trust you. So I fed you a lot of bull about ruining you with Bruce and ran you off.”
Her eyes widened, darkened. “You…really wanted me, didn’t you?” she asked gently.
“Until you were an obsession,” he replied, his voice low and slightly harsh. “You were so beautiful, Erin. Any man would have died to have you.”
Then, perhaps, she thought. But not now, not with her scars and her limp and her lack of confidence. She averted her eyes. “Those days are over now,” she said dully. “I’m not the same person.”
“Aren’t you? You could be, if you wanted to.”
“With my scars?” Her voice broke, and she jerked away from him, wounded. Her eyes sparked at his puzzled face. “You wanted me when I was beautiful; you wanted me because Bruce did. But now I’m crippled and hurt, and you feel sorry for me. That’s the only reason you’re even tolerating me, Ty! You were my enemy from the first day we met. Even then, you looked at me as if you hated me!”
Of course he had, he mused, searching her cold face. He’d wanted her. Needed her. It had all been a defense against being hurt himself. He’d fought her because he wanted her so much, and he knew in his heart that she’d never want someone like him. But he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t let her know how vulnerable he’d been.
“So you’re crippled,” he said easily, brutally. “And apparently you like being that way, and feeling sorry for yourself, because you’re not making any effort to change it. I guess you want to live under my roof and depend on me for every crumb you eat for the rest of your life, is that right?”
It was a calculated risk—it might send her into spasms of weeping, for which he’d hate himself. But he was betting it would have the opposite effect.
It did. Her eyes began to blaze. Her face went white with pent-up fury. She swung at him immediately, and he caught her wrist with her hand just a fraction of an inch from his jaw.
He jerked, pulling her across the wide seat and into his hard arms, and held her against him relentlessly.
“You…!” She struggled frantically until her own sharp movements brought pain. Then she stiffened, feeling the knifelike stab in her hip, and gasped.
“See what you get?” he chided. He held her with one arm while his lean hand massaged the throbbing hip through the thick corduroy of her dark slacks. “Does that help?”
“Stop it,” she muttered, spitting out a strand of hair that had worked its way between her lips. “Oh, I do hate you, Tyson Radley Wade!”
His pale eyes kindled. “I didn’t know you knew my middle name.”
She shifted, grimacing as his kneading freed the tense muscles from their cramp. “I saw…your birth certificate…with Bruce’s when we were looking at the family album one night.”
His hand was less therapeutic now than blatantly caressing. He moved it slowly over her hip, watching her face curiously. “Odd that you’d remember something like that, seeing how much you hate me,” he murmured.
“Ty…”
“That’s how you said my name,” he breathed, bending, “when I touched you for the first time. You moaned it, just like that, and the blood rushed into my head like fire.”
“I didn’t…moan it,” she whispered. His mouth was almost against hers, and she stared at its hard, thin curve as if hypnotized. She didn’t want him to kiss her. It was too soon; there had been too much pain….
But he was already doing it. His hard mouth caught hers roughly and took it, possessed it. He groaned, jerking her breasts close against his chest, crushing her mouth feverishly under the hardness of his.
She pushed against him, feeling the steely warmth of his muscular chest through his shirt, the powerful beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He wasn’t giving her room to respond, even if she’d been able to. He was taking. Just taking.
At last, her lack of response seemed to get through to him. He lifted his mouth and stared into her eyes.
“What am I doing wrong?” he whispered huskily. “Show me.”
She wondered at his choice of words, but only for a moment. It had been months, and the feel of him was making her weak. She reached up without thinking, curving her slender fingers against his cheek, and pulled him closer. She nibbled at his mouth, her lips barely touching his, probing gently, brushing so that he could feel their very texture.
“Like this?” he murmured, and followed her lead.
The soft brushing movements of his warm mouth made her tingle. She smiled against his lips and moved her breasts gently over his chest so that he coul
d feel them. He stiffened, and his arms contracted with bruising force.
“Ty!” she whispered reprovingly. “Not so hard, please!”
He was breathing roughly. He let her move away, watching her hand go to her sore breasts, and his eyes traced them curiously. “You’re delicate there,” he said. “I didn’t think. Did I hurt them?” He moved his hand over hers, lightly touching her, as if a woman’s body were a new and mysterious phenomenon.
“I’m all right,” she said breathlessly.
His fingers eased between hers, so that they were warm on the curve of her breast. His eyes locked with hers, and she could see the pupils dilating.
His lips parted as he found the hard tip of her breast with one long finger and began to rub it gently through the fabric of her blouse. She jerked helplessly and gasped, and he did it a little harder. He watched her bite her lip and realized that she was biting back a moan, because her expression was one of pleasure, not pain.
“God, that excites me,” he breathed roughly. “Watching you like this drives me crazy!”
She could feel that; he’d turned her so that her belly was lying against his, and she knew that he was fully aroused.
He nuzzled his cheek against hers, hiding his glittering eyes. His hand gently moved hers aside and covered her breast, savoring its soft firmness, tracing its contours as if he’d never touched a woman like that before.
She was scarcely breathing at all, the pain forgotten, the memories forgotten. There was only now, and the silence of the closed car, the rasp of Ty’s breathing at her ear, the furious throbbing of his heart. There was the sound of his hand smoothing the cotton print of her blouse, the whispery gasps she couldn’t stifle, and the feel of his hard arms as she gripped him for support.
He kissed her cheek, her ear, his lips tender, urgent. His hand fumbled with buttons, and he muttered something under his breath as he found her bra and couldn’t figure out how to get it open. Finally, he settled for sliding his hand roughly underneath, lifting her free of the lacy cup, and he groaned again as he felt the softness fill his hand, felt the hardness grinding into his damp palm.
“Ty…” Her voice sounded oddly high-pitched, helpless. She turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest, clinging to him.
He went over the edge at the unexpected vulnerability. He nuzzled her cheek with his lips; then, finding her mouth, he kissed it hungrily with a rough kind of tenderness. His hand cupped her breast warmly, insistently, and it was a long time before he lifted his head and looked down.
His skin was dark against hers, dark against the telltale paleness of flesh shielded from the harsh light of the sun. And the sight of his hand there, possessing her, made her flush feverishly.
He caught her eyes. “Have you had anyone since me?” he whispered huskily.
“No,” she replied honestly.
“I haven’t had anyone since you.” His eyes traveled down to the softness in his hand. “Oh, God, Erin, you’re so beautiful.”
Her lips parted on a rush of exhaled breath. What was she letting him do? Where was her pride? He hadn’t caused the wreck, but if he’d listened to her, it might have been prevented. She’d lost her baby, she was crippled….
She pulled away from him, crumpling her blouse together as she avoided his eyes. She was breathing hard, but so was he.
“I guess I shouldn’t have done that,” he said hesitantly.
“I shouldn’t have let you,” she had the grace to admit.
He took a steadying breath and removed his dress Stetson to smooth his damp hair. “We’d better go inside,” he said, aware of his surroundings for the first time. He was grateful that it was José and Conchita’s afternoon off, and that the hands were all busy in the equipment barn. Thank God for tinted windows and large shade trees and the privacy of a big car. He straightened, feeling sore all over from frustrated desire. He could hardly believe that she’d given him such license, after all that had happened. Perhaps, he thought, there was a little hope left.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
He stared at her, his face hard but his eyes kindling with a new emotion. “I just hurt a little,” he said honestly. “Nothing to bother about. How’s your hip?”
She swallowed. “I…uh…hadn’t noticed.” She touched it gingerly. “I don’t enjoy being a cripple,” she added, belatedly remembering the source of the argument. “And I’ll be glad to do the exercises if it will convince you that I don’t want to ‘live off you.’”
“Good,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I don’t want to live off you, either. So suppose we start those exercises tonight? I think I could learn to like massaging that hip for you.”
“You weren’t massaging it.”
“What was I doing, then?” he asked innocently.
She glared at him and got out of the car. And was so flustered that she walked firmly on her damaged side for the first time since the surgery.
Chapter Five
That was the first night Ty didn’t withdraw into his study immediately after supper to work on his books. He had all kinds of equipment in there, including a state of the art computer with a vast memory in which he kept records of all his cattle. It was, Erin later learned, only a terminal, which was connected to the mainframe in his office. And he had two offices: one on the ranch itself, and another that he shared with several partners in some sweeping cattle-investment corporation. He had his finger in several pies—which accounted for his wealth.
“It takes a lot of figuring to keep up with it all,” he told her as they went into the living room for their after-dinner coffee. “I have accountants, but I don’t trust my books completely to anyone. I’ve seen outfits ruined just because the man on top didn’t want to be bothered with paperwork and made his people second-guess what he wanted done.”
“You don’t really trust anyone, do you?” she asked, curious. She sat down in a big armchair across from the sofa, careful not to look toward the fireplace. This was the room where Ty had seduced her, and the memories were disturbing.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured, watching her. “I guess I’m learning to trust you a little.”
“You didn’t have much choice, with Bruce’s will left the way it was,” she replied. She toyed with the skirt of her pale-green jersey dress. “I guess you were pretty upset when you found out what he’d done.”
“Ward Jessup and I go back a long way,” he said dryly. “I wouldn’t have jumped for joy at the prospect of oil rigs mingling with my purebred Santa Gertrudis.”
“I imagine not.” She looked up. “But how did you know I wouldn’t deliberately stay away just to make sure that happened?”
“I didn’t,” he confessed. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, his dark slacks and light shirt straining against the powerful muscles of an utterly masculine body. His hair was immaculately groomed, thick and black and straight, his face clean-shaven. He always looked neat, even when he was working cattle. Despite his lack of conventional good looks, he was more of a man than anyone Erin had ever known.
“I thought about it,” she admitted with a faint smile. “And then I thought about how many people would be out of work because of my stiff pride.”
“Softhearted liberal,” he chided gently. “Wouldn’t it have been worth it to see me brought to my knees after what I did to you?”
Her eyes searched his, and she felt the electricity that had never completely faded between them. “All I really could blame you for was listening to Bruce’s lies and refusing to listen to me.”
“Think so?” He got up and poured himself a brandy. She noticed that he didn’t offer her one and remembered that she’d always refused liquor in the past. He didn’t forget much.
“Anyway, it’s over and done now,” she murmured.
He turned, the brandy glass in one lean hand, staring at her intently. “Do you think it’s that easy for me?”
She stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
Somehow breath had suspended itself in her throat. She felt as if she were drowning in the depths of his pale eyes, held there by something new and strange and vulnerable. He’d always seemed incapable of emotion, yet for one moment, one heart-stopping eternity, his expression had held such pain—such agonized loss—that now she was powerless to move, to speak, even to think.
He lifted his head and stared at the painting above the mantel. It was a scene of Texas that had been done by someone in his family almost a century ago, of longhorn cattle in a storm with a ranch house and windmill in the background.
“Erin…” He paused as if searching for words, his back straight and rigid. “I didn’t plan what happened that night. I told you I had, but it wasn’t the truth….”
Her hands fiddled with her skirt as she stared at him in wonder. He’d never talked to her like this. She waited silently for him to continue.
“I thought if I goaded you, I might make you mad enough to strike out at me,” he said, lifting his eyes to the painting. “When you did, it gave me an excuse to touch you. I’d wanted that. You obsessed me, haunted me. I dreamed about how it would be, touching you that way.” He shrugged wearily. “You kissed me back, and I went crazy. To this day, I don’t half remember how it happened. I didn’t even think about taking precautions. I assumed that you were already doing it, that you were experienced.”
The confession fascinated her. She studied the hard muscles of his legs, his narrow hips, remembering how they’d felt under her exploring hands. She flushed a little at the memory. “I thought it was to get me out of Bruce’s life.”
He turned, pinning her with quiet, steady eyes. “I lied,” he said. “Bruce was the last thing on my mind. I wanted you.”
She felt like a trapped animal. He was doing it again, trying to take her over, own her. She clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “You let me go,” she whispered.
