Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  Abby came in the next afternoon with an invita­tion. "Calhoun and I have to go to a charity ball tonight. I know it's spur-of-the-moment, but would you like to come?"

  "Will my uncle be there, do you think?" Fay asked.

  "I hardly think so." Abby grinned. "Come on. You've been moping around here for two days, it will be good for you. You can ride with us, and there's a very nice man I want to introduce you to when we get there. He's unattached, personable, and rich enough not to mind that you are."

  "Uh, Mr. Langley...?"

  "I heard what happened in Cole's Cafe." Abby grimaced. "J.D. doesn't go to charity balls, so you aren't likely to run into him there."

  "Thank God. He was so kind to me the night I met him, but he's been terrible to me ever since. I only wanted to thank him. He thinks I have designs on him." She shuddered. "As if I'd ever chased a man in my life...!"

  "You're not J.D.'s kind of woman, Fay," the older woman said gently. "Your wealth alone would keep him at bay, without the difference in your ages. J.D.'s in his early thirties, and he doesn't like younger women."

  "I don't think he likes any women," Fay replied with a sigh. "Especially me. But I wasn't chasing him, honestly!"

  "Don't let it worry you."

  "You're sure he won't be there tonight?"

  "Absolutely positive," Abby assured her.

  Prophetic words. Abby and Calhoun picked Fay up at her apartment house, and drove her to the el­egant Whitman estate where the charity ball was al­ready in progress. Fay was wearing a long white silk dress with one shoulder bare and her hair in a very elegant braided bun atop her head. She looked young and fragile...and very rich.

  They went through the receiving line and Fay moved ahead of Calhoun and Abby to the refresh­ment table while they spoke to an acquaintance. She bumped into someone and turned to apologize.

  "Again?" J. D. Langley asked with a vicious scowl. "My God, do you have radar?"

  Fay didn't say a word. She turned and went back toward Abby and Calhoun, her heart pounding in her chest.

  Abby spotted J.D. and grimaced. "I didn't know," she told a shattered Fay. "I swear I didn't. Here, you stick close to us. He won't bother you. Come on, I'll introduce you to Bart and that will solve all your problems. I'm sorry, Fay."

  "It wasn't your fault. It's fate, I guess," she said dryly, although her eyes were troubled.

  "Arrogant beast," Abby muttered, sparing the tall, elegant man in the dinner jacket a speaking glance. "If he were a little less conceited, you wouldn't have this problem." She drew Fay forward. "Here he is. Bart!"

  A thin, lazy looking man with wavy blond hair and mischievous blue eyes turned as his name was called. He greeted Abby warmly and glanced at Fay with open curiosity and delight.

  "Well, well, Greek goddesses are back in style again, I see. Do favor me with a waltz before you set off for Mount Olympus, fair damsel."

  "This is our newest employee, Fay York," she introduced them. "Fay, this is Bartlett Markham. He's president of the local cattlemen's association."

  "Nice to meet you," she said, extending a hand. "Do you know cattle?"

  "I grew up on a ranch. I work for a firm of ac­countants now, but my family still has a pretty for­midable Santa Gertrudis purebred operation."

  "I don't know much, but I'm learning every day," Fay laughed.

  "I'll leave her with you, Bart," Abby said. "Do keep her away from J.D., will you? He seems to think she's stalking him."

  "Do tell?" His eyebrows levered up and he grinned. "Why not stalk me instead? I'm a much better catch than J.D., and you won't need preventive shots if you go out with me, either."

  Insinuating that she would with J.D., she thought. Rabies probably, she mused venomously, in case he bit her. She smiled at Bart, feeling happier already.

  "Consider yourself on the endangered species list, then," she said.

  He laughed. "Gladly." He glanced toward the band. "Would you like to dance?"

  "Charmed." She gave him her hand and let him lead her to the dance floor, where a live band was playing a bluesy two-step. She knew exactly where J. D. Langley was, as if she really did have radar, so she was careful not to look in that direction.

  He noticed. It was impossible not to, when she was dancing with one of his bitterest enemies. He stood quietly against a wall, his silver eyes steady and un­blinking as he registered the fluid grace with which she followed her partner's steps. He didn't like the way Markham was holding her, or the way she was responding.

  Not that he wanted her, he assured himself. She was nothing but another troublesome woman. A deb­utante, at that, and over ten years his junior. He had no use for her at all, and he'd made sure she knew it. Their one evening together had sent him tearing away in the opposite direction. She appealed to him terribly. He couldn't afford an involvement with a society girl. He knew he was better off alone, so keeping this tempting little morsel away from him became imperative. If he had to savage her to do it, it was still the best thing for both of them. She was much too soft and delicate for a man like himself. He'd break her spirit and her heart, because he had nothing to give. And his father's reputation in the community made it impossible for him to be seen in public with her in any congenial way. He'd accused her of stalking him, but gossip would have it the other way around. Another money-crazy Langley, critics would scoff, out to snare himself a rich wife. He groaned at just the thought.

  He didn't like seeing her with Markham, but there was nothing he could do about it. He shouldn't have come tonight.

  He turned away to the refreshment table and poured himself a glass of Scotch.

  "You aren't really after Donavan, are you?" Bart asked humorously.

  "He flatters himself," she said haughtily.

  "That's what I thought. Like father, like son," he said unpleasantly.

  "I don't understand."

  He made a graceful turn, carrying her with him as the music's tempo increased. "After Donavan's mother died, Rand Langley got into a financial tangle and was about to lose his ranch. My aunt was very young then, plain and shy, but she was filthy rich and single, so Rand set his cap for her. He kept after her until he seduced her, so that she had to marry him or disgrace her family. She was crazy about him. Worshiped the ground he walked on. Then, inevita­bly, she found out why he really married her and she couldn't live with it. She killed herself."

  Fay grimaced. "I'm sorry."

  "So were all of us," he added coldly, glaring at J. D. Langley's back. "Rand didn't even come to the funeral. He was too busy spending her money. He died a few years later, and believe me, none of us grieved for him."

  "That wasn't Donavan's fault," she felt bound to point out.

  "Blood will tell," came the unbelieving reply. "You're well-to-do."

  "Yes, but he can't stand me," she replied.

  "I don't believe that. I can't imagine J.D. passing up a rich woman."

  "How many has he dated over the years?" she asked with faint irritation.

  "I don't keep up with his love life," he said tersely, and all his prejudices showed quite clearly. Fay could see that he wouldn't believe a kind word about J. D. Langley if he had proof.

  "The two of you don't get along, I gather."

  "We disagree on just about everything. Especially on his ridiculous theories about cattle raising," he added sarcastically. "No. We don't get along."

  She was quiet after that. Now she understood the situation. It couldn't have been made clearer.

  She danced with several eligible bachelors and several married men before the evening ended. It sur­prised her that J. D. Langley was still present. He remained on the fringes of the dance floor, talking to other men. He asked no one to dance. Fay was sadly certain that he wouldn't ask her.

  But in that, she was surprised. The band was play­ing a soft love song and she watched Bart glance in her direction. But before he could get across the room, Donavan suddenly swung her into his arms and onto the dance floor.


  Her heart skipped wildly as she felt the firm clasp of his hand on her waist, his fingers steely as they linked her own.

  "This is not a good idea," she said firmly. "I'll think you're encouraging me."

  "Not likely. By now Bart's filled you in, hasn't he?" he replied with a mocking smile.

  She averted her eyes to the white ruffled shirt he wore under his dinner jacket. On another man it might look effeminate. On Donavan, it looked mas­culine and very sexy, emphasizing his dark good looks. "I got an earful, thanks," she replied.

  He shook her gently. "Stiff as a board," he mused, looking down at her. "Are you afraid to let your guard down? There's very little I could do to you on a dance floor in front of half of Jacobsville."

  "You've made your opinion of me crystal clear, Mr. Langley," she said without looking up. "I haven't been stalking you, as you put it, but you're free to think what you like. Do try to remember that I didn't ask you to dance."

  "That was the whole purpose of the exercise," he said carelessly. "To make sure you didn't set your cap for me."

  "Then why are you dancing with me?"

  His lean arm whipped her close on a turn, but he didn't let her go afterward. His dark face was all too close, so that she could smell his tangy after-shave, and his silver eyes bit into hers at point-blank range. "Don't you know?" he asked at her lips.

  Her heart tripped as she felt his breath. "Oh, I see," she said suddenly. "You're trying to irritate Bart."

  He lifted his head and one eyebrow quirked. "Is that it?"

  "What else?" she asked with a nervous laugh, averting her eyes to a fuming Bart nearby. "Listen, I'm not going to be used for any vendettas, by you or your hissing kin."

  His fingers curled into hers and drew them to his broad chest. It rose and fell heavily, and he stared over her dark head without seeing anything. "I don't have any vendettas," he said quietly. "But I won't be accused of following in my father's footsteps."

  She could feel the pain in those terse words, but she didn't remark on it. Her eyes closed and she drank in the delicious masculine scent of him. "I won't be rich for another week or two," she mur­mured. "Until the legal work goes through, I'm just a temporary secretary."

  He laughed in spite of himself. "I see. For two weeks you're on my level. No Mercedes. No man­sion. No padded checkbook."

  "Something like that." She sighed and snuggled closer. "How about a wild, passionate affair? We could throw the coats on the closet floor and you could have your way with me under somebody's sil­ver fox stole."

  He burst out laughing. His steely arm drew her close as he made a sudden turn, and her body throbbed with the sensations it caused in her untried body.

  "Hasn't anyone told you yet that I belong to two animal rights groups?"

  "So you're one of those people who protest lab animal experiments that save little children's lives and throw paint on people who wear fur coats?" she asked, her temper rising.

  "Not me. I'm no fanatic. I just think animals have the right to humane treatment, even in medical fa­cilities." His arm tightened. "As for throwing paint on fur coats, a few lawsuits should stem that habit. The idea is to stop further slaughter of wild animals. A fur coat is already a dead animal."

  She shivered. "You make it sound morbid."

  One silver eye narrowed. "Do you wear fur?"

  She chuckled. "I can't. Fur makes me break out in hives."

  He began to smile. "A rich girl with no furs. What a tragedy."

  "I have plenty of velvet coats, thanks very much. I think they're much more elegant than fur and they don't shed." She moved closer, shocked when his hand caught her hip and contracted painfully. "Ouch!" she protested.

  He moved her back an inch. "Don't push your luck," he said, his voice low and faintly threatening, like his glittery eyes. "You're pretty sexy in that little number you're wearing, and I'm easily aroused. Want me to prove it?"

  "No, thanks," she said quickly. "I'll take your word for it"

  He laughed as he spun her around in a neat turn. "For a sophisticated debutante, sometimes you're a contradiction. Is that a blush?"

  "It's hot in here."

  "Ah. The conventional excuse." He leaned close and brushed his cheek against hers. "Too bad you're rich."

  "Is it? Why?" she asked in a tone that sounded, unfortunately, all too breathless.

  He nibbled gently on her earlobe. "Because I'm dynamite in bed."

  "Do tell?" She hid her face against him. "Are you?" she whispered shakily.

  His lean hand slid up her back and into the coiled hair at her nape. He caressed it gently while he held her, the music washing over them in a sultry silence.

  "So I've been told." His chin rubbed softly against her temple, his breath coming roughly. "But why take someone else's word for it?"

  She forced a laugh. "Isn't this a little sudden? I mean, just a day ago you were giving me hell for eating lunch in the same restaurant with you."

  "I'm sure Bart told you the problem. Rich, you're right off my Christmas list. Poor, you're an endan­gered species." His hand contracted, coaxing her face up to his glittery eyes.

  "Should I cut and run?" she asked, her voice husky.

  "Do you really want to?" he whispered.

  As he spoke, he moved closer, and his powerful thighs brushed hers. Even through all the layers of fabric, she felt the imprint of them, the strength. His hand slid down her back to her waist and pulled, very gently, so that she was pressed right up to him, welded from breast to thigh. He watched her eyes and something masculine and arrogant kindled in his gaze as he felt the faint shiver of her soft body.

  "Do you like Chinese food?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "I like to drive up to Houston for it. There's a good restaurant just inside the city limits. How about it?"

  Her heart jumped. "Are you asking me out?"

  "Sounds like it," he mused. "Don't expect steak and lobster. I make a good salary, but it doesn't run to champagne."

  She colored furiously. "Please, don't," she said quickly. "I'm not like that."

  He touched her face gently. "Yes, I know. It makes it harder. Do you think I enjoyed hurting you?" he asked harshly, and for an instant something showed in his eyes that startled her. He looked away. "There's no future for us, little one."

  She felt him hesitating. Any second, he was going to take back that supper invitation.

  "Just Chinese food," she prompted, one slender hand poking him gently in the ribs.

  He started, and she grinned at him. "And no moonlight seduction on the way home," she added. "As you said, it isn't wise to start things we can't finish."

  "I could finish that," he murmured dryly.

  She cleared her throat. "Well, I don't take chances. I'll risk my stomach with you, but not my heart."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Does that mean that making love with me might enslave you?" he teased.

  "Exactly. Besides, I never sleep with a man on the first date."

  There was the faintest movement of his eyelashes. He averted his gaze to a point beyond her head. He couldn't admit that it bothered him, thinking of her with other men. She was a debutante and filthy rich, surely there had been a steady stream of suitors. She might have more experience even than he did. He'd never thought about a woman's past before. It had never occurred to him to wonder how experienced his lover of the evening actually was. But with Fay, he wondered.

  "What's wrong?" she asked curiously.

  He glanced down at her. She looked very innocent until she smiled, and then her eyes crinkled and there was a sophistication in them that made him feel cool. "Nothing."

  "That's usually the woman's line, isn't it?"

  "Equal rights," he reminded her. "Friday night. I'll pick you up at six."

  "I don't live with Uncle Henry anymore," she began.

  "I know where you live," he replied. "We'll eat Chinese food and you can show me what you know. It should be quite an experience..."

&nb
sp; Long after the dance was over and she was back in her apartment, she worried over that last statement.

  She felt as if she were about to get in well over her head.

  She wanted Donavan more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. A date with him was the gold at the end of the rainbow. But she'd pretended to be something she wasn't, and she didn't know what she was going to do if he took her up on it.

  Abby noticed Fay's preoccupation the next day when she stopped by to see Calhoun.

  "You're positively morose!" Abby exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

  "Donavan asked me out."

  Her eyebrows went up. "J.D. asked you out? But he hates rich women."

  "Yes, I know. I told him I was going to be poor for two more weeks, so I guess he thought it was safe enough until my inheritance comes through."

  "I see." Abby didn't say anything, but she began to look worried herself. "Fay, I never thought to mention it, because J.D. was giving you such a hard time, but he's something of a womanizer..."

  "I figured that out for myself," she murmured with a smile. "It shows."

  "He's a gentleman, in his way. Just don't give him too much rope. He'll hang you with it."

  "I know that, too. I'll be careful."

  Abby hesitated. "If it helps, I know how you feel. I was crazy about Calhoun, but he liked a different kind of woman altogether. We had a very rocky path to the altar."

  "He's crazy about you, though. Anyone can see that."

  Abby smiled contentedly. "Of course he is. But it wasn't always that way."

  "Donavan already said that he doesn't want com­mitment. I'm not going to get my hopes up. But an evening out with him... Well, it's going to be like brushing heaven, you know?"

  "I do, indeed." Abby smiled, remembering her first date with Calhoun. She glanced back at Fay, her eyes wistful. She only hoped their newest employee wasn't going to be badly hurt. Everyone locally knew that J. D. Langley wasn't a marrying man. But Abby would have bet her prize bull that Fay was as inno­cent as Abby herself had once been. If she was, she had a lot of heartache in store. When J.D. found out, and he would, he'd drop Fay like a hot rock. Inno­cents were not his style.

  Fay went through the motions of working like a zombie for the next week, with a dull and tedious weekend in between that did little for her nerves. Donavan didn't come by the feedlot at all, and when she left the office the next Friday afternoon, she still hadn't heard from him. For all she knew, he might have forgotten all about her.