Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  "Get out," he said simply. "People live in prisons out of choice. You can always walk away from a situation you don't care for."

  "Want to bet? I'm rich," she said curtly. "Filthy rich. But it's all tied up in a trust that I can't touch until I'm twenty-one, and my uncle is hoping to marry me off to a business associate in time to get his hands on some of it."

  "Are you for real?" he asked. He picked up the whiskey glass and took a sip, putting the glass down with a sharp movement of his hand. "Tell him to go to hell and do what you please. At your age I was working for myself, not for any relatives."

  "You're a man," she pointed out.

  "What difference does that make?" he asked. "Haven't you ever heard of women's lib?"

  She smiled. At least one person in the bar had heard of women's lib. "I'm not that kind of woman. I'm wimpy."

  "Listen, lady, no wimpy girl walks into a place like this in the middle of the night and orders a beer."

  She laughed, her green eyes brilliant. "Yes, she does, when she's driven to it. Besides, it was safe, wasn't it? You were here."

  He lifted his chin and a different light came into the pale, silvery eyes. "And you think I'm safe," he murmured. "Or, more precisely, that you're safe with me?"

  Her heart began to thud against her ribs. That was a very adult look in his eyes, and she noticed the corresponding drop of his voice into a silky, soft purr. Her lips parted as she let out the breath she was holding.

  "I hope I am," she said after a minute. "Because I've done a stupid thing and even though I might deserve a hard time, I'm hoping you won't give me one."

  He smiled, and this time it was without mockery. "Good girl. You're learning."

  "Is it a lesson?" she asked.

  He drained the whiskey glass. "Life is all lessons.

  The ones you don't learn right off the bat, you have to repeat. Get up. I'll drive you home."

  "Must you?" she asked, sighing. "It's the first adventure I've ever had, and it may be the last."

  He cocked his hat over one eye and looked down at her. "In that case, I'll do my best to make it mem­orable," he murmured dryly. He held out a lean, strong hand and pulled her up when she took it. "Are you game?"

  She was feeling her way with him, but oddly, she trusted him. She smiled. "I'm game."

  He nodded. He took her arm and guided her out the door. She noticed a few looks that came their way, but no one tried to distract him.

  "People seem to know you in there," she re­marked when they were outside in the cool night air.

  "They know me," he returned. "I've treed that bar a time or two."

  "Treed it?"

  He glanced down at her. "Broken it up in a brawl. Men get into trouble, young lady, and women aren't always handy to get them out of it."

  "I'm not really handy," she said hesitantly.

  He chuckled. "Honey, what you are is written all over you in green ink. I don't mind a little adventure, but that's all you'll get from me." His silvery eyes narrowed. "If you stay around here long enough, you'll learn that I don't like rich women, and you'll learn why. But for tonight, I'm in a generous mood."

  "I don't understand," she said.

  He laughed without humor. "I don't suppose you do." He eyed her intently. "You aren't safe to be let out."

  "That's what everybody keeps saying." She smiled with what she hoped was sophistication. "But how will I learn anything about life if I'm kept in a glass bowl?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you've got a head start already." He tugged her along to a raunchy gray pickup truck with dents all over it. "I hope you weren't expecting a Rolls-Royce, debutante. I could hardly haul cattle in one."

  She felt terrible. She actually winced as she looked up at him, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the dry remark that was meant to be funny.

  "Oh, I don't care what you drive," she said hon­estly. "You could be riding a horse, and it wouldn't matter. I don't judge people by what they have."

  His pale eyes slid over her face lightly. "I think I knew that already," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I meant it as a joke. Here. Don't cut yourself on that spring. It popped out and I haven't had time to fix it."

  "Okay." She bounced into the cab and he closed the door. It smelled of the whole outdoors, and when he got in, it smelled of leather and smoke. He glanced at her and smiled.

  He started the truck and glanced at her. "Did you drive here?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  He paused to look around the parking lot, pursing his lips with faint amusement when he saw the regal blue Mercedes-Benz sitting among the dented pickup trucks and dusty four-wheel-drive vehicles.

  "That's right, you don't need to ask what I drove here in," she muttered self-consciously. "And yes, it's mine."

  He chuckled. "Bristling already, and we've only just met," he murmured as he pulled out into the road. "What do you do when you aren't trying to pick up strange men in bars?"

  She glared at him. "I study piano, paint a little, and generally try to stay sane through endless dinner parties and morning coffees."

  He whistled through his teeth. "Some life."

  She turned in the seat, liking the strength of his profile. "What do you do?"

  "Chase cattle, mostly. Figure percentages, decide which cattle to cull, hire and fire cowboys, go to conferences, make financial decisions." He glanced at her. "Occasionally I sit on the board of directors of two corporations.''

  She frowned slightly. "I thought you said you were a foreman."

  "There's a little more to it than that," he said comfortably. "You don't need to know the rest. Where do you want to go?"

  She had to readjust her thinking from the abrupt statement. She glanced out the dark window at the flat south Texas landscape. "Well...I don't know. I just don't want to go home."

  "They're having a fiesta down in San Moreno," he said with an amused glance. "Ever been to one?"

  "No!" Her eyes brightened. "Could we?"

  "I don't see why not. There isn't much to do ex­cept dance, though, and drink beer. Do you dance?"

  "Oh, yes. Do you?"

  He chuckled. "I can when forced into it. But you may have trouble with the beer part."

  "I learned to like caviar," she said. "Maybe I can learn to like beer."

  He didn't comment. He turned on the radio and country-western music filled the cab. She leaned her head back on the seat and smiled as she closed her eyes. Incredible, she thought, how much she trusted this man when she'd only just met him. She felt as though she'd known him for years.

  The feeling continued when they got to the small, dusty town of San Moreno. A band of mariachis was playing loud, lively Mexican music while people danced in the roped-off main square. Vendors sold everything from beer to tequila and chimichangas and tacos. The music was loud, the beer was hot, but nobody seemed to mind. Most of the people were Mexican-American, although Fay noticed a few cow­boys among the celebrants.

  "What are we celebrating?" Fay asked breath­lessly as Donavan swung her around and around to the quick beat of the music.

  "Who cares?" He chuckled.

  She shook her head. In all her life, she couldn't remember being so happy or feeling so carefree. If she died tomorrow, it would be worth it, because she had tonight to remember. So she drank warm beer that tasted better with each sip, and she danced in Dona van's lean, strong arms, and rested against his muscular chest, and breathed in the scent of him until she was more drunk on the man than the liquor.

  Finally the frantic pace died down and there was a slow two-step. She melted into Donavan, sliding her arms around him with the kind of familiarity that usually came from weeks of togetherness. She seemed to fit against him, like a soft glove. He smelled of tobacco and beer and the whole outdoors, and the feel of his body so close to hers was delight­fully exciting. His arms enfolded her, both of them wrapped close around her, and for a few minutes there was nobody else in the world. She heard the music as if through a fog of pure pleasure, he
r body reacting to the closeness of his in a way it had never reacted before. She felt a tension that was disturbing, and a kind of throbbing ache in her lower body that she'd never experienced. Being close to him was be­coming intolerable. She caught her breath and pulled away a little, raising eyes full of curious apprehen­sion to his.

  He searched her face quietly, aware of her fear and equally aware of the cause of it. He smiled gently. "It's all right," he said quietly.

  She frowned. "I...I don't quite understand what's wrong with me," she whispered. "Maybe the beer..."

  "There's no need to pretend. Not with me." He framed her face in his lean hands and bent, pressing a tender kiss against her forehead. "We'd better go."

  "Must we?" she sighed.

  He nodded. "It's late." He caught her hand in his and tugged her along to the truck. He was feeling something of the same reckless excitement she was, except that he was older and more adept at control­ling it. He knew that she'd wanted him while they were dancing, but things were getting ahead of him. He didn't need a rich society girl in his life. God knew, one had been the ruin of his family. People around Jacobsville, Texas, still remembered how his father had gone pell-mell after a local debutante without any scruples about how he forced her to many him, right on the heels of his wife's funeral, too. Donavan had turned bitter trying to live down the family scandal. Miss High Society here would find it out eventually. Better not to start something he couldn't finish, even if she did cause an incon­venient ache in his body. No doubt she'd had half a dozen men, but she might be addictive—and he couldn't risk finding out she was.

  She was pleasantly relaxed when they got back to the deserted bar where she'd left her Mercedes. The spell had worn off a little, and her head had cleared. But with that return to reality came the unpleasant­ness of having to go home and face the music. She hadn't told anyone where she was going, and they were going to be angry. Really angry.

  "Thank you," she said simply, turning to Dona-van after she unlocked her car. "It was a magical night."

  "For me, too." He opened the door for her. "Stay out of my part of town, debutante," he said gently. "You don't belong here."

  Her green eyes searched his gray ones. "I hate my life," she said.

  "Change it," he replied. "You can if you want to."

  "I'm not used to fighting."

  "Get used to it. Life doesn't give, it takes. Any­thing worth having is worth fighting for."

  "So they say." She toyed with her car keys. "But in my world, the fighting gets dirty."

  "It does in mine, too. That never stopped me. Don't let it stop you."

  She lowered her eyes to the hard chest that had pillowed her head while they danced. "I won't forget you."

  "Don't get any ideas," he murmured dryly, flick­ing a long strand of hair away from her face. "I'm not looking for complications or ties. Not ever. Your world and mine wouldn't mix. Don't go looking for trouble."

  "You just told me to," she pointed out, lifting her face to his.

  "Not in my direction," he emphasized. He smiled at her. The action made him look younger, less for­midable. "Go home."

  She sighed. "I guess I should. You wouldn't like to kiss me good-night, I guess?" she added with lifted eyebrows.

  "I would," he replied. "Which is why I'm not going to. Get in the car."

  "Men," she muttered. She glared at him, but she got into the car and closed the door.

  "Drive carefully," he said. "And wear your seat belt."

  She fastened it, but not because of his order—she usually wore a seat belt. She spared him one long, last look before she started the car and pulled away. When she drove onto the main highway, he was al­ready driving off in the other direction, and without looking back. She felt a sense of loss that shocked her, as if she'd given up part of herself. Maybe she had. She couldn't remember ever feeling so close to another human being.

  Her father and mother had never been really close to her. They'd had their own independent lives, and they almost never included her in any of their activ­ities. She'd grown up with housekeepers and govern­esses for companionship, and with no brothers or sis­ters for company. From lonely child to lonely woman, she'd gone through the motions of living. But she'd never felt that anyone would really mind if she died.

  That hadn't changed when she'd come out to Ja­cobsville, Texas, to live with her mother's brother, Uncle Henry Rollins. He wasn't well-to-do, but he wanted to be. He wasn't above using his control over Fay's estate to provide the means to entertain. Fay hadn't protested, but she'd just realized tonight how lax she'd been in looking out for her own interests. Uncle Henry had invited his business partner to sup­per and hadn't told Fay until the last minute. She was tired of having Sean thrown at her, and she'd rebelled, running out the door to her car.

  It had been almost comical, bowlegged Uncle Henry rushing after her, huffing and puffing as he tried to match his bulk to her slender swiftness and lost. She hadn't known where she was going, but she'd wound up at the bar. Fate had sent her there, perhaps, to a man who made her see what a docile child she'd become, when she was an independent woman. Well, things were going to change. Starting now.

  Donavan had fascinated her. She tingled, just re­membering how he hadn't even had to lift a hand in the bar to make the man who'd been worrying her back down. He was the stuff of which romantic fan­tasies were made. But he didn't like rich women.

  It would be nice, she thought, if Donavan had fallen madly in love with her and started searching for her. That would be improbable, though, since he didn't have a clue as to her real identity. She didn't know his, either, come to think of it; all she knew was what he did for a living. But he could have been stretching the truth a little. He hadn't sounded quite forceful when he'd said he was a foreman.

  Well, it didn't really matter, she thought sadly. She'd never see him again. But it had been a mem­orable meeting altogether, and she knew she'd never forget him. Not ever.

  Chapter Two

  The feedlot office was quiet, and Fay York was grateful for the respite. It had been a hectic two weeks since she started this, her first job. She was still faintly amazed at her own courage and grit, be­cause she'd never thought she'd be able to actually do it She'd surprised her Uncle Henry as much as herself when she'd announced her plans to get a job and become independent until her inheritance came through.

  It had been because of Donavan that she'd done it. Her evening with him had changed her life. He'd made it possible for her to believe in herself. He'd given her a kind of self-confidence that she hadn't thought possible.

  But it hadn't been easy, and she'd been scared to death the morning she'd walked into the office of the gigantic Ballenger feedlot to ask for a job.

  Barry Holman, the local attorney who was to handle her inheritance, had suggested that she see Justin Ballenger about work, because his secretary was out having a baby and Calhoun Ballenger's wife, Abby, had been reluctantly filling in.

  She could still remember her shock when she'd gone to Mr. Holman to ask for a living allowance until her inheritance came through, something that would give her a little independence from her over­bearing uncle.

  That was when the blow fell. "I'm sorry," Hol­man said. "But there's no provision for any living allowance. According to the terms of the will, you can't inherit until you're twenty-one. Until that time, the executor of your parents' estate has total control of your money."

  She gasped. "You mean I don't have any money unless Uncle Henry gives it to me?"

  "I'm afraid so," he said. "I realize it probably seems terribly unfair to you, Fay, but your parents must have thought they were doing the right thing."

  "I can't believe it," she said, feeling sick. She wrapped her arms around her body. "What will I do?"

  "What you originally planned. Go ahead and get a job. You'll only need it for a couple of weeks, until you get your inheritance."

  The statement helped her fight out of her misery. Involuntarily, s
he smiled, liking the blond attorney. He was in his early thirties, very good-looking and successful. He was married, because on his desk was a photograph of a young woman with long, brown hair holding a baby.

  “Thank you," she said.

  "Oh, it's my pleasure. Don't worry, you won't even have to look far for a job. I just happen to know of an opening. Know anything about cattle?"

  She hesitated. "Not really."

  "Do you mind working around them?"

  "Not if I don't have to brand them," she mur­mured dryly.

  He laughed. "It won't come to that. The Ballenger brothers are looking for a temporary secretary. Their full-time one was pregnant and just had a compli­cated delivery. She'll be out about two months and they're looking for someone to fill in. Calhoun Bal-lenger's wife has been trying to handle it, but you'd be a godsend right now. Can you type?"

  "Oh, yes," she said. "I can handle a computer, too. I took several college courses before my parents died and I had to come out here to comply with the terms of their will."

  "Good!"

  "But surely they've found someone..."

  "There aren't that many people available for part-time work," he said. "Mostly high-school students, and they don't like the environment that goes with the job."

  She grinned. "I won't care, as long as I make enough to pay my rent."

  "You will. Here." He scribbled an address. "Go and see Justin or Calhoun. Tell them I sent you. Trust me," he added, rising to shake hands with her. "You'll like them."

  "I hope so. I sure don't like my uncle much at the moment."

  He nodded. "I can understand that. But Henry isn't a bad man, you know. And there could be more to this than meets the eye," he added reluctantly.

  That statement gave her cold chills. The way Un­cle Henry had been throwing her headlong at a rich bachelor friend of his made her uneasy. "I suppose so." She hesitated. "Do you know just how my un­cle's been managing my affairs in the past two months?"

  "Not yet," Barry Holman replied. "I've asked for an accounting, but he's refused to turn over any doc­uments to me until the day you turn twenty-one."