Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  "That isn't funny."

  "Do you think I'm joking?" he replied. "He likes to lure illegal immigrants in here with promises of big salaries and health benefits, and then when he's got them where he wants them, he threatens them with the immigration service if they don't work hard and accept the pittance he pays. We've all tried to get his operation closed down, but he's slippery as an eel." He glanced at her with narrowed dark eyes. "I'm not going to let you sell yourself into that just to get away from me."

  "Let me?" She rose immediately to the challenge, eyes flashing. "You don't tell me what to do!"

  He grinned. "That's better."

  She hit her hand against the cast, furious. "Where are you taking me?"

  "Home."

  "You're going the wrong way."

  "My home."

  "No," she said icily. "Not again. Not ever again!"

  He shifted gears, accelerated, and shifted again. He loved the smoothness of the engine, the ride. He loved the speed. He wondered if Leslie had loved fast cars before her disillusionment.

  He glanced at her set features. "When your leg heals, I'll let you drive it."

  "No, thanks," she almost choked.

  “Don't you like cars?"

  She pushed back her hair. "I can't drive," she said absently.

  "What?"

  "Look out, you're going to run us off the road!" she squealed.

  He righted the car with a muffled curse and down­shifted. "Everybody drives, for God's sake!"

  "Not me," she said flatly.

  "Why?"

  She folded her arms over her breasts. ' 'I just never wanted to."

  More secrets. He was becoming accustomed to the idea that she never shared anything about her private life except, possibly, with Ed. He wanted her to open up, to trust him, to tell him what had happened to her. Then he laughed to himself at his own pre­sumption. He'd been her mortal enemy since the first time he'd laid eyes on her, and he expected her to trust him?

  "What are you laughing at?" she demanded.

  He glanced at her as he slowed to turn into the ranch driveway. "I'll tell you one day. Are you hun-

  gry?"

  "I'm sleepy."

  He grimaced. "Let me see if I can guess why."

  She glared at him. His own eyes had dark circles. "You haven't slept, either."

  "Misery loves company."

  "You started it!"

  "Yes, I did!" he flashed back at her, eyes blazing. "Every time I look at you, I want to throw you down on the most convenient flat surface and ravish you! How's that for blunt honesty?"

  She stiffened, wide-eyed, and gaped at him. He pulled up at his front door and cut off the engine. He turned in his seat and looked at her as if he re­sented her intensely. At the moment, he did.

  His dark eyes narrowed. They were steady, intim­idating. She glared into them.

  But after a minute, the anger went out of him. He looked at her, really looked, and he saw things he hadn't noticed before. Her hair was dark just at her scalp. She was far too thin. Her eyes had dark circles so prominent that it looked as if she had two black eyes. There were harsh lines beside her mouth. She might pretend to be cheerful around Ed, but she wasn't. It was an act.

  "Take a picture," she choked.

  He sighed. "You really are fragile," he remarked quietly. "You give as good as you get, but all your vulnerabilities come out when you've got your back to the wall."

  "I don't need psychoanalysis, but thanks for the thought," she said shortly.

  He reached out, noticing how she shrank from his touch. It didn't bother him now. He knew that it was tenderness that frightened her with him, not ardor. He touched her hair at her temple and brushed it back gently, staring curiously at the darkness that was more prevalent then.

  "You're a brunette," he remarked. "Why do you color your hair?''

  "I wanted to be a blonde," she replied instantly, trying to withdraw further against the door.

  "You keep secrets, Leslie," he said, and for once he was serious, not sarcastic. "At your age, it's un­usual. You're young and until that leg started to act up, you were even relatively healthy. You should be carefree. Your life is an adventure that's only just beginning."

  She laughed hollowly. "I wouldn't wish my life even on you," she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. "Your worst enemy," he concluded for her.

  "That's right."

  "Why?"

  She averted her eyes to the windshield. She was tired, so tired. The day that had begun with such promise had ended in disappointment and more mis­ery.

  "I want to go home," she said heavily.

  "Not until I get some answers out of you...!"

  "You have no right!" she exploded, her voice breaking on the words. "You have no right, no right...!"

  "Leslie!"

  He caught her by the nape of the neck and pulled her face into his throat, holding her there even as she struggled. He smoothed her hair, her back, whisper­ing to her, his voice tender, coaxing.

  "What did I ever do to deserve you?" she sobbed. "I've never willingly hurt another human being in my life, and look where it got me! Years of running and hiding and never feeling safe...!"

  He heard the words without understanding them, soothing her while she cried brokenly. It hurt him to hear her cry. Nothing had ever hurt so much.

  He dried the tears and kissed her swollen, red eyes tenderly, moving to her temples, her nose, her cheeks, her chin and, finally, her soft mouth. But it wasn't passion that drove him now. It was concern.

  "Hush, sweetheart," he whispered. "It's all right. It's all right!"

  She must be dotty, she thought, if she was hearing endearments from Attila the Hun here. She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, finally getting control of herself. She sat up and he let her, his arm over the back of her seat, his eyes watchful and quiet.

  She took a steadying breath and slumped in the seat, exhausted.

  "Please take me home," she asked wearily.

  He hesitated, but only for a minute. "If that's what you really want."

  She nodded. He started the car and turned it around.

  * * *

  He helped her to the front door of the boarding-house, visibly reluctant to leave her.

  "You shouldn't be alone in this condition," he said flatly. "I'll phone Ed and have him come over to see you."

  "I don't need..." she protested.

  His eyes flared. "The hell you don't! You need someone you can talk to. Obviously it isn't going to be your worst enemy, but then Ed knows all about you, doesn't he? You don't have secrets from him!"

  He seemed to mind. She searched his angry face and wondered what he'd say if he knew those secrets. She gave him a lackluster smile.

  "Some secrets are better kept," she said heavily. "Thanks for the ride."

  "Leslie."

  She hesitated, looking back at him.

  His face looked harder than ever. "Were you raped?"

  Chapter Eight

  The words cut like a knife. She actually felt them. Her sad eyes met his dark, searching ones.

  “Not quite," she replied tersely.

  As understatements went, it was a master stroke. She watched the blood drain out of his face, and knew he was remembering, as she was, their last en­counter, in his office, when she'd fainted.

  He couldn't speak. He tried to, but the words choked him. He winced and turned away, striding back to the sports car. Leslie watched him go with a curious emptiness, as if she had no more feelings to bruise. Perhaps this kind detachment would last for a while, and she could have one day without the mental anguish that usually accompanied her, waking and sleeping.

  She turned mechanically and went slowly into the house on her crutches, and down the hall to her small apartment. She had a feeling that she wouldn't see much of Matt Caldwell from now on. At last she knew how to deflect his pursuit. All it took was the truth—or as much of it as she felt comfortable letting him know.

 
Ed phoned to check on her later in the day and promised to come and see her the next evening. He did, arriving with a bag full of the Chinese take-out dishes she loved. While they were eating it, he men­tioned that her job was still open.

  "Miss Smith wouldn't enjoy hearing that," she teased lightly.

  "Oh, Karla's working for Matt now."

  She stared down at the wooden chopsticks in her hand. "Is she?"

  "For some reason, he doesn't feel comfortable asking you to come back, so he sent me to do it," he replied. "He realizes that he's made your working environment miserable, and he's sorry. He wants you to come back and work for me."

  She stared at him hard. "What did you tell him?"

  "What I always tell him, that if he wants to know anything about you, he can ask you." He ate a fork­ful of soft noodles and took a sip of the strong coffee she'd brewed before he continued. "I gather he's re­alized that something pretty drastic happened to you."

  "Did he say anything about it to you?"

  "No." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "He did go to the roadhouse out on the Victoria highway last night and wreck the bar."

  "Why would he do something like that?" she asked, stunned by the thought of the straitlaced Mather Caldwell throwing things around.

  "He was pretty drunk at the time," Ed confessed. "I had to bail him out of jail this morning. That was one for the books, let me tell you. The whole damned police department was standing around staring at him openmouthed when we left. He was only ever in trouble once, a woman accused him of assault—and he was cleared. His housekeeper testified that she'd been there the whole time and she and Matt had sent the baggage packing. But he's never treed a bar be­fore."

  She remembered the stark question he'd asked her and how she'd responded. She didn't understand why her past should matter to Matt. In fact, she didn't want to understand. He still didn't know the whole of it, and she was frightened of how he'd react if he knew. That wonderful tenderness he'd given her in the Jaguar had been actually painful, a bitter taste of what a man's love would be like. It was something she'd never experienced, and she'd better remember that Matt was the enemy. He'd felt sorry for her. He certainly wasn't in love with her. He wanted her, that was all. But despite her surprising response to his light caresses, complete physical intimacy was something she wasn't sure she was capable of responding to. The memories of Mike's vicious fondling made her sick. She couldn't live with them.

  "Stop doing that to yourself," Ed muttered, drag­ging her back to the present. "You can't change the past. You have to walk straight into the future with­out flinching. It's the only way, to meet things head-on."

  "Where did you learn that?" she asked.

  "Actually I heard a televised sermon that caught my attention. That's what the minister said, that you have to go boldly forward and meet trouble head-on, not try to run away from it or hide." He pursed his lips. "I'd never heard it put quite that way before. It really made me think."

  She sipped coffee with a sad face. "I've always tried to run. I've had to run." She lifted her eyes to his. "You know what they would have done to me if I'd stayed in Houston."

  "Yes, I do, and I don't blame you for getting out while you could," Ed assured her. "But there's something I have to tell you now. And you're not going to like it."

  "Don't tell me," she said with black humor, "someone from the local newspaper recognized me and wants an interview."

  "Worse," he returned. "A reporter from Houston is down here asking questions. I think he's traced you."

  She put her head in her hands. "Wonderful. Well, at least I'm no longer an employee of the Caldwell group, so it won't embarrass your cousin when I'm exposed."

  "I haven't finished. Nobody will talk to him," he added with a grin. "In fact, he actually got into Matt's office yesterday when his secretary wasn't looking. He was only in there for a few minutes, and nobody knows what was said. But he came back out headfirst and, from what I hear, he ran out the door so fast that he left his briefcase behind with Matt cursing like a wounded sailor all the way down the hall. They said Matt had only just caught up with him at the curb when he ran across traffic and got away."

  She hesitated. "When was this?"

  "Yesterday." He smiled wryly. "It was a bad time to catch Matt. He'd already been into it with one of the county commissioners over a rezoning proposal we're trying to get passed, and his secretary had hidden in the bathroom to avoid him. That was how the reporter got in."

  "You don't think he...told Matt?" she asked wor­riedly.

  "No. I don't know what was said, of course, but he wasn't in there very long."

  "But, the briefcase..."

  "...was returned to him unopened," Ed said. "I know because I had to take it down to the front desk." He smiled, amused. "I understand he paid someone to pick it up for him."

  "Thank God."

  "It was apparently the last straw for Matt, though," he continued, "because it wasn't long after that when he said he was leaving for the day."

  "How did you know he was in jail?"

  He grimaced. "Carolyn phoned me. He'd come by her place first and apparently made inroads into a bottle of scotch. She hid the rest, after which he de­cided to go and get his own bottle." He shook his head. "That isn't like Matt. He may have a drink or two occasionally, but he isn't a drinker. This has shocked everybody in town."

  "I guess so." She couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the way he'd treated her. But if he'd gone to Carolyn, perhaps they'd had an argument and it was just one last problem on top of too many. "Was Carolyn mad at him?" she asked.

  "Furious," he returned. "Absolutely seething. It seems they'd had a disagreement of major propor­tions, along with all the other conflicts of the day." He shook his head. "Matt didn't even come in to work today. I'll bet his head is splitting."

  She didn't reply. She stared into her coffee with dead eyes. Everywhere she went, she caused trouble. Hiding, running—nothing seemed to help. She was only involving innocent people in her problems.

  Ed hesitated when he saw her face. He didn't want to make things even worse for her, but there was more news that he had to give her.

  She saw that expression. "Go ahead," she invited. "One more thing is all I need right now, on top of being crippled and jobless."

  "Your job is waiting," he assured her. "When­ever you want to come in."

  "I won't do that to him," she said absently. "He's had enough."

  His eyes became strangely watchful. "Feeling sorry for the enemy?" he asked gently.

  "You can't help not liking people," she replied. "He likes most everybody except me. He's basically a kind person. I just rub him the wrong way."

  He wasn't going to touch that line. "The same reporter who came here had gone to the prison to talk to your mother," he continued. "I was con­cerned, so I called the warden. It seems...she's had a heart attack."

  Her heart jumped unpleasantly. "Will she live?"

  "Yes," he assured her. "She's changed a lot in six years, Leslie," he added solemnly. "She's rec­onciled to serving her time. The warden says that she wanted to ask for you, but that she was too ashamed to let them contact you. She thinks you can't ever forgive what she said and did to you."

  Her eyes misted, but she fought tears. Her mother had been eloquent at the time, with words and the pistol. She stared at her empty coffee cup. "I can forgive her. I just don't want to see her."

  "She knows that," Ed replied.

  She glanced at him. "Have you been to see her?"

  He hesitated. Then he nodded. "She was doing very well until this reporter started digging up the past. He was the one who suggested the movie deal and got that bit started." He sighed angrily. "He's young and ambitious and he wants to make a name for himself. The world's full of people like that, who don't care what damage they do to other peoples' lives as long as they get what they want."

  She was only vaguely listening. "My mother...did she ask you about me?"

>   "Yes."

  "What did you tell her?" she wanted to know.

  He put down his cup. "The truth. There really wasn't any way to dress it up." His eyes lifted. "She wanted you to know that she's sorry for what hap­pened, especially for the way she treated you before and after the trial. She understands that you don't want to see her. She says she deserves it for destroy­ing your life."

  She stared into space with the pain of memory eating at her. "She was never satisfied with my fa­ther," she said quietly. "She wanted things he couldn't give her, pretty clothes and jewelry and nights on the town. All he knew how to do was fly a crop-dusting plane, and it didn't pay much..." Her eyes closed. "I saw him fly into the electrical wires, and go down," she whispered gruffly. "I saw him go down!" Her eyes began to glitter with feeling. "I knew he was dead before they ever got to him. I ran home. She was in the living room, playing music, dancing. She didn't care. I broke the record player and threw myself at her, screaming."

  Ed grimaced as she choked, paused, and fought for control. "We were never close, especially after the funeral," she continued, "but we were stuck with each other. Things went along fairly well. She got a job waiting tables and made good tips when she was working. She had trouble holding down a job be­cause she slept so much. I got a part-time job typing when I was sixteen, to help out. Then when I'd just turned seventeen, Mike came into the restaurant and started flirting with her. He was so handsome, well-bred and had nice manners. In no time, he'd moved in with us. I was crazy about him, you know the way a young girl has crushes on older men. He teased me, too. But he had a drug habit that we didn't know about. She didn't like him teasing me, anyway, and she had a fight with him about it. The next day, he had some friends over and they all got high." She shivered. "The rest you know."

  "Yes." He sighed, studying her wan face.

  "All I wanted was for her to love me," she said dully. "But she never did."

  "She said that," he replied. "She's had a lot of time to live with her regrets." He leaned forward to search her eyes. "Leslie, did you know that she had a drug habit?"