by Lind Howard
Now that Webb had returned, he would be attending the meetings just as he had used to do. This was likely the last time she would be sitting here, listening and assessing, another place where her usefulness was at an end. In some distant part of her psyche she was aware of hurt, and fear, but she refused to allow them to surface.
The meeting was finally dawdling to an end. She checked her watch once again and saw that she had perhaps five minutes before she had to leave or be late. Normally she took the time to chat with everyone, but today she had time only for a quick word with the commissioner.
He was coming toward her, a short, stocky, balding man with a deeply lined face. The creases rearranged themselves into a smile as he approached her in her usual position close to the back of the room. “How are you today, Roanna?”
“Fine, thank you, Chet,” Roanna replied, thinking that she might as well tell him about Webb’s return. “And you?”
“Can’t complain. Well, I could, but my wife tells me no one’s interested in listening.” He laughed at his own joke, his eyes twinkling. “And how’s Miss Lucinda feeling?”
“Much better, now that Webb’s home,” she said calmly.
He gaped at her in astonishment, and for a second, dismay was written plainly on his face. He blurted, “My God, what are ya’ll going to do?” before the rest of her statement sank in and he realized that commiseration wasn’t appropriate. He turned beet red and started to sputter in his attempt to retrench. “I—ah, that is—”
Roanna lifted her hand to stop his verbal stumbling. “He’ll be taking up the reins again, of course,” she said as if Webb’s return was the most natural thing in the world. “It will take him a few weeks to review everything, but I’m certain he’ll be contacting you soon.”
The commissioner sucked in a deep breath. He looked faintly ill, but he had recovered his composure. “Roanna, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’ve been handling things just fine for Miss Lucinda, and folks around here will be more comfortable with you—”
Roanna’s eyes were very clear and direct. “Webb is taking over again,” she said softly. “It would distress Lucinda if anyone chose not to do business with us, but of course that’s their choice.”
His windpipe bobbed as he swallowed. Roanna had just made it very plain that anyone who didn’t accept Webb would find themselves without Davenport support or patronization. She never got angry, never yelled, never insisted on a point, and seldom even voiced an opinion, but folks in the county had learned not to discount the influence this somber-eyed woman had with Lucinda Davenport. Moreover, most people liked Roanna; it was as simple as that. No one would want an open rift with the Davenports.
“This will probably be the last monthly meeting that I’ll attend,” she continued.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” a deep, lazy voice said from the doorway just behind her.
Startled, Roanna turned to face Webb as he stepped into the room. “What?” she said. What was he doing here? He hadn’t even changed clothes. Had he been so afraid she would mess up something that he’d rushed down to the commissioner’s meeting without even taking the time to unpack?
“Hello, Chet,” Webb was saying easily, holding out his hand to the commissioner.
The commissioner’s face turned red. He hesitated, then his politician’s instincts took over and he shook Webb’s hand. “Webb! Speak of the devil! Roanna was just telling me you were back at Davencourt. You’re looking good, real good.”
“Thanks. You’re looking prosperous yourself.”
Chet patted his belly and gave a hearty laugh. “Too prosperous! Willadean says I’m on a seafood diet—I eat everything I see!”
People milling about in the room had noticed Webb, and an agitated buzz was growing in volume. Roanna glanced at Webb, and the glint in his green eyes told her that he was well aware of the stir his presence was causing and wasn’t the least concerned about it.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” he said to Roanna, turning a smile on her. “Just because I’m home doesn’t mean you get to goof off from now on. We’ll probably come to the meetings together.”
Despite her shock, Roanna nodded gravely.
Webb looked at his watch. “Don’t you have a lunch engagement in Florence? You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”
“I’m on my way. ’Bye, Chet.”
“See you at the next meeting,” the commissioner said, still in that falsely jovial tone as she maneuvered past him and into the hallway.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Webb nodded at the commissioner and turned to fall into step with Roanna.
She was acutely aware of him just at her elbow as they walked down the hall. His tall form easily dominated her even though she was wearing high heels. She didn’t know what to think about what had just happened, so she didn’t let herself jump to any conclusions. Maybe he truly intended they should work together, maybe he’d just been saying that to smooth the way. Only time would tell, and she wouldn’t let herself hope. If she didn’t hope, then she couldn’t be disappointed.
A wave of double takes followed them down the hall as people recognized Webb and turned to stare. Roanna walked faster, wanting to get out of the building before a confrontation could develop. She reached the end of the hall, and Webb’s arm extended in front of her to open the door. She felt the brush of his body against her back.
They exited into the glare and sticky humidity of the hot summer morning. Roanna fished her keys out of purse and slipped her sunglasses on her nose. “What made you come to town?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I figured now was as good a time to break the ice as any.” His long legs easily kept up with her hurried pace. “Slow down, it’s too hot for a race.”
Obediently she slacked her pace. Her car was parked close to the end of a row, and if she hurried all that distance, she would be drenched in sweat by the time she got to it. “Were you serious about the meetings?” she asked.
“Dead serious.” He had put on his own sunglasses, and the dark lenses kept her from reading his expression. “Lucinda has been singing your praises. You already know what’s going on, so I’d be a fool if I didn’t use you.”
One thing Webb wasn’t, particularly where business was concerned, was a fool. Roanna felt a wave of dizziness at the thought of actually working with him. She had been prepared for anything, she’d thought, from being ignored to being evicted, but she hadn’t considered that he would want her help.
They reached her car, and Webb plucked the keys from her hand. He unlocked the door and opened it, then handed the keys back. She waited a moment for the wave of pent-up heat in the car to dissipate, then slipped behind the wheel. “Be careful,” he said, and closed the door.
Roanna glanced in the rearview mirror as she pulled out of the parking lot. He was striding back toward the building; perhaps he was parked up that way, or he was going back inside. She let her gaze move hungrily over that wide, muscled back and long legs, just for a second’s delight, then she forced her attention back to her driving and merged into traffic.
Webb unlocked his own car and got inside. The impulse that had sent him into town had been a simple one, but strong. He had wanted to see Roanna. That was all, just see her. After the disturbing things Lucinda had told him, the old protective instincts had taken over and he’d wanted to see for himself that she was all right.
She was, of course, more than all right. He had seen for himself how deftly she had handled Chet Forrister, her composure unruffled by the commissioner’s opposition— and on Webb’s own behalf. Now he understood exactly what Lucinda had been telling him when she’d said Roanna was stronger, that she’d changed. Roanna no longer needed him to fight her battles.
The realization left him feeling oddly bereft.
He should have been glad, for her sake. The young Roanna had been so painfully vulnerable, an easy target for anyone who wanted to take a verbal potshot at her tender
emotions. He had constantly been stepping in to shield her, and his reward had been her unflagging adoration.
Now she had forged her own armor. She was cool and self-contained, almost emotionless, keeping people at a distance so their slings and arrows couldn’t reach her. She had paid for that armor with pain and despair, almost with her own life, but the steel was strong. She still suffered, in the form of insomnia and nightmares when she did manage to sleep, but she handled her own problems now.
When he had walked into Davencourt today and seen her standing there on the stairs, wearing that elegantly understated silk dress and creamy pearls, with her dark chestnut hair in a sleek, sophisticated style, he had been rendered almost speechless at the contrast between the rowdy, untidy girl she had been and the classy, classic woman she was now.
She was still Roanna, but she was different. When he looked at her now, he didn’t see the urchin with the unruly tongue, the awkward teenager. He looked at her and thought of the slender body beneath the silk dress, the texture of her skin that rivaled the dress in luxurious silkiness, the way her nipples had peaked at his slightest touch during those long hours in the motel in Nogales.
He had covered her naked body with his own, pulled her legs wide open, and taken her virginity. Even now, sitting in the contained, roasting heat of the car, he shivered with the power of the memory. God, he remembered every little detail—how it had felt pushing into her, the hot, soft tightness of her body as he sheathed himself inside her. He remembered how delicate she had felt beneath him, her smaller body dominated by his size, his weight, his strength. He had wanted to cradle her in his arms, protect her, soothe her, pleasure her—everything but stop. There was no way he could have stopped.
Those memories had been driving him crazy for the past ten days, depriving him of sleep, interrupting his work. When he’d seen her again today, he had been shaken by a wave of pure possessiveness. She was his. She was his, and he wanted her. He wanted her so much that his hands had started shaking. It had taken all of his self-control not to climb the stairs to where she stood, take her arm, and march her the rest of the way upstairs to one of the bedrooms, any bedroom, where he could lift her skirt and bury himself inside her once more.
He had restrained himself for one reason, and one reason only. Roanna had carefully built her inner fortress, but every fortress had a weakness, and he knew exactly what her weakness was.
Him.
She could protect herself against everyone but him.
She hadn’t tried to hide it, or deny it. She had told him with devastating honesty that all he had to do was snap his fingers and she would come running. She would have gone up those stairs with him and let him do anything he wanted to her.
Webb drummed his fingers on the hot steering wheel. It seemed there was one more dragon Roanna needed him to fight, and that was his own sexual desire for her.
He had told her that he would come home if she would let him use her sexually, and she hadn’t hesitated. If that was what he wanted, then she would do it. If he needed a sexual outlet, she would be available. She would do it for Lucinda, for Davencourt, for him—but what about herself?
He knew he could walk into Roanna’s bedroom at any time and have her, and the temptation was already eating at him. But he didn’t want Roanna to give herself to him out of guilt, or duty, or even because of her misguided hero worship. He was no hero, damn it, he was a man. He wanted her to want him as a man, male to her female. If she slipped into his bed merely because she was horny and wanted the relief he could give her, he would be delighted even by that, because it was simple and uncomplicated by other people’s motives, or even her own.
God, what about his own motives?
Sweat dripped into his eye, stinging, and with a muffled curse he turned the ignition switch, starting the motor so the air conditioner would blast into life. He was going to give himself a heat stroke, sitting in a closed car in the middle of summer while he tried to sort through a tangle of emotions.
He loved Roanna; he’d loved her all her life, but as a sister, with an amused, protective indulgence.
He hadn’t been prepared for the force and heat of the physical desire that had flared when she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him, ten long years ago. It had come from nowhere, like swirling gases that had been compressed until they reached critical mass, then exploded into a white hot star. It had shaken him, made him feel guilty. Everything about it had felt wrong. She’d been too young; he’d always thought of her as a sister; he’d been married, for God’s sake. The guilt in that situation had been all his. Even though his marriage had been collapsing, he had still been married. He’d been the experienced one; he should have gently turned the kiss into a gesture of impulsive affection, something that wouldn’t have embarrassed her. Instead, he’d pulled her tighter and turned the kiss into something quite different, a deeper, adult kiss, laden with sexuality. What had happened had been his fault, not Roanna’s, but she was still trying to pay the price.
Most of the original barriers to a sexual relationship between them were gone. Roanna was a woman now, he wasn’t married, and he didn’t feel at all brotherly toward her. But other barriers remained: the pressures of family, Roanna’s own sense of duty, his pride.
He snorted at himself as he put the car in gear. God, yes, let’s not forget his male pride. He didn’t want her to give herself to him for Davencourt, family, any of those unimportant reasons. He wanted her to lie hot and panting beneath him for no other reason than she wanted him. Nothing else would do.
The bastard was back. The news was all over the county and reached the bars that night. Harper Neeley shook with rage every time Webb Tallant’s name was mentioned. Tallant had gotten away with killing Jessie, and now he was back to start lording it over everyone again as if nothing had ever happened. Oh, that stupid fat-ass sheriff hadn’t arrested him, said there wasn’t enough evidence for a conviction, but everyone knew he’d been bought off. The Davenports and the Tallants of this world never had to pay for the shit they committed. It was the ordinary people who did time, not the la-di-dah rich folks who lived in their big, fancy house and thought the rules didn’t apply to them.
Webb Tallant had bashed Jessie’s head in with an andiron. He still wept when he thought about it, his beautiful Jessie with her hair all matted with blood and brains, one side of her head flattened. Somehow the bastard had found out about him and Jessie, and killed her for it. Or maybe Tallant found out that the little bun in the oven hadn’t been his. Jessie had said she’d handle it, and she was a slick one if he’d ever seen one, but this time she hadn’t been slick enough.
No one had ever belonged to him the way Jessie had. She’d been wild, that girl, wild and wicked, and it had excited him so much he’d nearly creamed his pants the first time she’d come on to him. She’d been excited, too, her eyes bright and hot. She’d loved the danger of it, the thrill of doing the forbidden. That first time she had been like an animal, clawing and bucking, but she hadn’t come. It had taken him a while to figure it out. Jessie had liked to screw for a lot of reasons, but pleasure hadn’t been one of them. She’d used her body to mess with men’s heads, to gain power over them. She’d fucked him to get back at her son-of-a-bitch husband, to get back at everyone and show them she didn’t give a damn. She’d never meant for anyone else to know, but she knew, and that was how she got her rocks off.
But once he’d figured it out, he hadn’t let her get away with it. Nobody used him, not even Jessie. Especially not Jessie. He knew her the way no one else ever had or ever would, because inside she was like him.
He started her out with kinky little games, never pushing her too far at once. She’d taken to it like a cat to cream, something even a little more forbidden for her to gloat over when she was sitting up at the big house, acting like a perfect lady and laughing at how easily she fooled everybody because she’d just spent the afternoon screwing her brains out with the one man guaranteed to make them all p
iss in their lace drawers.
They’d had to be careful; they couldn’t go to any local motel, and it wasn’t always possible for her to come up with an excuse for being absent and unreachable for several hours at a time. Usually they’d just meet in the woods somewhere. They’d been in the woods when he’d decided he’d had enough of her game playing and finally showed her who was boss.
By the time he’d let her go, she’d been covered with bruises and bites, but she’d come so many times she’d barely been able to sit her horse. She’d complained bitterly about having to be careful and not let anyone see the marks on her body, but her eyes had been shining. He’d fucked her so long and so hard that he’d been pumped dry and she’d been raw, and she had loved it. Always before women had whined and blubbered when he got rough with them, but not Jessie. She came back for more, and dished out her own medicine. He’d gone home with his back clawed bloody more times than once, and every burning weal had reminded him of her and fed his hunger for more.
There’d never been another woman like his girl. She’d come back for more, too, and pushed for rougher and more kinky games, the dirtier the better. They’d gone on to butt fucking, and that had given her a real thrill, the most forbidden thing she could do with the most forbidden man. Wicked, wicked Jessie. He’d loved her so much.
There wasn’t a day that had gone by that he hadn’t thought about her, missed her. No other woman could turn him on the way she had.
That goddamn Webb Tallant had killed her, killed both her and the kid. Then he’d waltzed away, free as a jaybird, and left town before he could be made to pay.
