Unlikely Lover

by Diana Palmer

  A tall man attracted her interest, and despite the shyness she felt with most men, she studied him blatantly. He was as big as the side of a barn, tall with rippling muscles and bristling with backcountry masculinity. Wearing a gray suit, an open-necked white shirt and a pearly gray Stetson and boots, he looked big and mean and sexy. The angle of that hat over his black hair was as arrogant as the look on his deeply tanned face, as intimidating as that confident stride that made people get out of his way. He would have made the perfect hero for Mari’s book. The strong, tender man who would lead her damaged heroine back to happiness again…

  He didn’t look at anyone except Mari, and after a few seconds she realized that he was coming toward her. She clutched the little carryall tightly as he stopped just in front of her, and in spite of her height she had to look up to see his eyes. They were green and cold. Ice-cold.

  “Marianne Raymond,” he said as if she’d damned well better be. He set her temper smoldering with that confident drawl.

  She lifted her chin. “That’s right,” she replied just as quietly. “Are you from Three Forks Ranch?”

  “I am Three Forks Ranch,” he informed her, reaching for the carryall. “Let’s go.”

  “Not one step,” she said, refusing to release it and glaring at him. “Not one single step until you tell me who you are and where we’re going.”

  His eyebrows lifted. They were straight and thick like the lashes over his green eyes. “I’m Ward Jessup,” he said. “I’m taking you to your Aunt Lillian.” He controlled his temper with a visible effort as he registered her shocked expression and reached for his wallet, flashing it open to reveal his driver’s license. “Satisfied?” he drawled and then felt ashamed of himself when he knew why she had reason to be so cautious and nervous of him.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. That was Ward Jessup? That was a dying man? Dazed, she let him take the carryall and followed him out of the airport.

  He had a car—a big Chrysler with burgundy leather seats and controls that seemed to do everything, right up to speaking firmly to the passengers about fastening their seat belts.

  “I’ve never seen such an animal,” she commented absently as she fastened her seat belt, trying to be a little less hostile. He’d asked for it, but she had to remember the terrible condition that the poor man was in. She felt guilty about her bad manners.

  “It’s a honey,” he remarked, starting the engine. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, on the plane, thank you,” she replied. She folded her hands in her lap and was quiet until they reached the straight open road. The meadows were alive with colorful wildflowers of orange and red and blue, and prickly pear cacti. Mari also noticed long stretches of land where there were no houses and few trees, but endless fences and cattle everywhere.

  “I thought there was oil everywhere in Texas,” she murmured, staring out at the landscape and the sparse houses.

  “What do you think those big metal grasshoppers are?” he asked, glancing at her as he sped down the road.

  She frowned. “Oil wells? But where are the big metal things that look like the Eiffel Tower?”

  He laughed softly to himself. “My God. Eastern tenderfoot,” he chided. “You put up a derrick when you’re hunting oil, honey, you don’t keep it on stripper wells. Those damned things cost money.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ll bet you weren’t born knowing that, either, Mr. Jessup,” she said.

  “I wasn’t.” He leaned back and settled his huge frame comfortably.

  He sure does look healthy for a dying man, Mari thought absently.

  “I worked on rigs for years before I ever owned one.”

  “That’s very dangerous work, isn’t it?” she asked conversationally.

  “So they say.”

  She studied his very Roman profile, wondering if anyone had ever painted him. Then she realized that she was staring and turned her attention to the landscape. It was spring and the trees looked misshapen and gloriously soft feathered with leaves.

  “What kind of trees are those, anyway?” she asked.

  “Mesquite,” he said. “It’s all over the place at the ranch, but don’t ever go grabbing at its fronds. It’s got long thorns everywhere.”

  “Oh, we don’t have mesquite in Georgia,” she commented, clasping her purse.

  “No, just peach trees and magnolia blossoms and dainty little cattle farms.”

  She glared at him. “In Atlanta we don’t have dainty little cattle farms, but we do have a very sophisticated tourism business and quite a lot of foreign investors.”

  “Don’t tangle with me, honey,” he advised with a sharp glance. “I’ve had a hard morning, and I’m just not in the mood for verbal fencing.”

  “I gave up obeying adults when I became one,” she replied.

  His eyes swept over her dismissively. “You haven’t. Not yet.”

  “I’ll be twenty-two this month,” she told him shortly.

  “I was thirty-five last month,” he replied without looking her way. “And, to me, you’d still be a kid if you were four years older.”

  “You poor, old, decrepit thing,” she murmured under her breath. It was getting harder and harder to feel sorry for him.

  “What an interesting houseguest you’re going to make, Miss Raymond,” he observed as he drove down the interstate. “I’ll have to arrange some razor-blade soup to keep your tongue properly sharpened.”

  “I don’t think I like you,” she said shortly.

  He glared back. “I don’t like women,” he replied and his voice was as cold as his eyes.

  She wondered if he knew why she’d come and decided that Aunt Lillian had probably told him everything. She averted her face to the window and gnawed on her lower lip. She was being deliberately antagonistic, and her upbringing bristled at her lack of manners. He’d asked Lillian to bring her out to Texas; he’d even paid for her ticket. She was supposed to cheer him up, to help him write his memoirs, to make his last days happier. And here she was being rude and unkind and treating him like a bad-tempered old tyrant.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a minute.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, unable to look at him. “You let me come here, you bought my ticket, and all I’ve done since I got off the plane is be sarcastic to you. Aunt Lillian told me all about it, you know,” she added enigmatically, ignoring the puzzled expression on his face. “I’ll do everything I can to make you glad you’ve brought me here. I’ll help you out in every way I can. Well,” she amended, “in most ways. I’m not really very comfortable around men,” she added with a shy smile.

  He relaxed a little, although he didn’t smile. His hand caressed the steering wheel as he drove. “That’s not hard to understand,” he said after a minute, and she guessed that her aunt had told him about her strict upbringing. “But I’m the last man on earth you’d have to worry about in that particular respect. My women know the score, and they aren’t that prolific these days. I don’t have any interest in girls your age. You’re just a baby.”

  Annoying, unnerving, infuriating man, she thought uncharitably, surprised by his statement. She looked toward him hesitantly, her eyes quiet and steady on his dark face. “Well, I’ve never had any interest in bad-tempered old men with oil wells,” she said with dry humor. “That ought to reassure you as well, Mr. Jessup, sir.”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” he murmured with an amused glance. “I’m not that old.”

  “I’ll bet your joints creak,” she said under her breath.

  He laughed. “Only on cold mornings,” he returned. He pulled into the road that led to Three Forks and slowed down long enough to turn and stare into her soft blue eyes. “Tell you what, kid, you be civil to me and I’ll be civil to you, and we’ll never let people guess what we really think of each other. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she returned, eager to humor him. Poor man!

  His green eyes narrowed. “Pity, about your age and that ex
perience,” he commented, letting his gaze wander over her face. “You’re uncommon. Like your aunt.”

  “My aunt is the reincarnation of General Patton,” she said. She wondered what experience he meant. “She could win wars if they’d give her a uniform.”

  “I’ll amen that,” he said.

  “Thanks for driving up to get me,” she added. “I appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t know how you’d feel about a strange cowboy,” he said gently. “Although we don’t know each other exactly, I knew that Lillian’s surely mentioned me and figured you’d be a bit more comfortable.”

  “I was.” She didn’t tell him how Lillian had described him as Attila the Hun in denim and leather.

  “Don’t tell her we’ve been arguing,” he said unexpectedly as he put the car back in gear and drove up to the house. “It’ll upset her. She stammered around for a half hour and even threatened to quit before she got up the nerve to suggest your visit.”

  “Bless her old heart.” Mari sighed, feeling touched. “She’s quite a lady, my aunt. She really cares about people.”

  “Next to my grandmother, she’s the only woman that I can tolerate under my roof.”

  “Is your grandmother here?” she asked as they reached a huge cedarwood house with acres of windows and balconies.

  “She left last week, thank God,” he said heavily. “One more day of her and I’d have left and so would Lillian. She’s too much like me. We only get along for short stretches.”

  “I like your house,” she remarked as he opened the door for her.

  “I don’t, but when the old one burned down, my sister was going with an architect who gave us a good bid.” He glared at the house. “I thought he was a smart boy. He turned out to be one of those innovative New Wave builders who like to experiment. The damned bathrooms have sunken tubs and Jacuzzis, and there’s an indoor stream…Oh, God, what a nightmare of a house if you sleepwalk! You could drown in the living room or be swept off into the river.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. He sounded horrified. “Why didn’t you stop him?” she asked.

  “I was in Canada for several months,” he returned. He didn’t elaborate. This strange woman didn’t need to know that he’d gone into the wilderness to heal after Caroline’s betrayal and that he hadn’t cared what replaced the old house after lightning had struck and set it afire during a storm.

  “Well, it’s not so bad,” she began but was interrupted when Lillian exploded out of the house, arms outstretched. Mari ran into them, feeling safe for the first time in weeks.

  “Oh, you look wonderful,” Lillian said with a sigh. “How are you? How was the trip?”

  “I’m fine, and it was very nice of Mr. Jessup to come and meet me,” she said politely. She turned, nodding toward him. “Thanks again. I hope the trip didn’t tire you too much?”

  “What?” he asked blankly.

  “I told Mari how hard you’d been working lately, boss,” Lillian said quickly. “Come on, honey, let’s go inside!”

  “I’ll bring the bag,” Ward said curiously and followed them into the rustic but modern house.

  Mari loved it. It was big and rambling and there was plenty of room everywhere. It was just the house for an outdoorsman, right down to the decks that overlooked the shade trees around the house.

  “I think this place is perfect for Ward, but for heaven’s sake, don’t tell him that! And please don’t let on that you know about his condition,” Lillian added, her eyes wary. “You didn’t say anything about it?” she asked, showing Mari through the ultramodern upstairs where her bedroom overlooked the big pool below and the flat landscape beyond, fenced and cross-fenced with milling cattle.

  “Oh, no, Scout’s honor,” Mari said. “But how am I going to help him write his memoirs?”

  “We’ll work up to it in good time,” Lillian assured her. “He, uh, didn’t ask why you came?”

  Mari sighed. “He seemed to think I’d asked to come. Odd man, he thought I was afraid of him. Me, afraid of men, isn’t that a scream? Especially after what Beth and I did at that all-night department store.”

  “Don’t ever tell him, please,” Lillian pleaded. “It would…upset him. We mustn’t do that,” she added darkly. “It could be fatal!”

  “I won’t, truly I won’t,” Mari promised. “He sure is healthy looking for a dying man, isn’t he?”

  “Rugged,” Lillian said. “Real rugged. He’d never let on that he was in pain.”

  “Poor brave man,” Mari said with a sigh. “He’s so tough.”

  Lillian grinned as she turned away.

  * * *

  “Did his sister like this house?” Mari asked later after she’d unpacked and was helping Lillian in the kitchen.

  “Oh, yes,” Lillian confided to her niece. “But the boss hates it!”

  “Is his sister like him?” Mari asked.

  “To look at, no. But in temperament, definitely,” the older woman told her. “They’re both high-strung and mean tempered.”

  “You mentioned that he had a male secretary,” Mari reminded her as she rolled out a piecrust.

  “Yes. David Meadows. He’s young and very efficient, but he doesn’t like being called a secretary.” Lillian grinned. “He thinks he’s an administrative assistant.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “I don’t know what the boss would do without him, either,” Lillian continued as she finished quartering the apples for the pie. Another apple pie might soften him up a little, she was thinking. “David keeps everything running smoothly around here, from paying the accounts to answering the phone and scheduling appointments. The boss stays on the road most of the time, closing deals. The oil business is vast these days. Last week he was in Saudi Arabia. Next week he’s off to South America.”

  “All that traveling must get tiresome,” Mari said, her blue eyes curious. “Isn’t it dangerous for him in his condition?”

  For a moment Lillian looked hunted. Then she brightened. “Oh, no, the doctor says it’s actually good for him. He takes it easy, and it keeps his mind off things. He never talks about it, though. He’s a very private person.”

  “He seems terribly cold,” Mari remarked thoughtfully.

  “Camouflage,” Lillian assured her. “He’s warm and gentle and a prince of a man,” she added. “A prince! Now, get this pie fixed, girl. You make the best pies I’ve ever tasted, even better than my own.”

  “Mama taught me,” Mari said gently. “I really miss her sometimes. Especially in the autumn. We used to go up into the mountains to see the leaves. Dad was always too busy, but Mama and I were adventurous. It’s been eight years since she died. And only one since Dad went. I’m glad I still have you.”

  Lillian tried not to look touched, but she was. “Get busy,” she said gruffly, turning away. “It isn’t good to look back.”

  That was true, Mari thought, keeping her own thoughts on the present instead of the past. She felt sad about Ward Jessup—even if he was a dreadful oilman. She’d heard her aunt talk about him for so many years that she felt as if she knew him already. If only she could make it through the week without making him angry or adding to his problems. She just wanted to help him, if he’d let her.

  Mari was just going into the other room to call him when her attention was caught by the stream running through the room, lit by underwater colored lights. It was eerie and beautiful indoor “landscaping,” with plants everywhere and literally a stream running through the middle of the living room, wide enough to swim in.

  Not paying much attention to where she was going, Mari backed along the carpet, only half aware of footsteps, and suddenly collided with something warm and solid.

  There was a terribly big splash and a furious curse. When she turned around, she felt herself go pale.

  “Oh, Mr. Jessup, I’m sorry,” she wailed, burying her cheeks in her hands.

  He was very wet. Not only was he soaked, but there was a lily pad on top of his
straight black hair that had been slicked down by all the water. He was standing, and though the water came to his chin, he looked very big and very angry. As he sputtered and blinked, Mari noticed that his green eyes were exactly the shade of the lily pad.

  “Damn you…” he began as he moved toward the carpeted “shore” with a dangerous look on his dark face. At that moment nobody would have guessed that he was a dying man. As quick as lightning he was out of the water, dripping on the carpet. Suddenly Mari forgot his delicate condition and ran like hell.

  “Aunt Lillian!”

  Mari ran for the kitchen as fast as her slender legs could carry her, a blur in jeans and a white sweatshirt as she darted down the long hall toward the relative safety of the kitchen.

  Behind her, soggy footsteps and curses followed closely.

  “Aunt Lillian, help!” she cried as she dashed through the swing door.

  She forgot that swing doors tend to swing back when forcibly opened by hysterical people. It slammed back into a tall, wet, cursing man. There was an ominous thud and the sound of shattering ceramic pieces.

  Lillian looked at her niece in wide-eyed shock. “Oh, Mari,” she said. Her ears told her more than she wanted to know as she stared at the horrified face of her niece. “Oh, Mari.”

  “I think Mr. Jessup may need a little help, Aunt Lillian,” Mari began hesitantly.

  “Prayer might be more beneficial at the moment, dear,” Aunt Lillian murmured nervously. She wiped her hands on her printed apron and cautiously opened the swing door to peer into the dining room.

  Ward Jessup was just sitting up among the ruins of his table setting, china shards surrounding him. His suit was wet, and there was a puddle of water under him as he tugged his enormous frame off the floor. His eyes were blazing in a face that had gone ruddy in anger. He held on to a chair and rose slowly, glaring at Lillian’s half-hidden face with an expression that told her there was worse to come.

  “She’s really a nice girl, boss,” Lillian began, “once you get to know her.”