But even had she not been discomfited by his character and his excesses, she had no desire for the role she would lead as Mrs. Evan Randolf—a useless socialite whose prime function was to host elaborate dinner parties and attend charity functions with self-important people. She wanted to do some good in her life, something meaningful. Unlike her mother, she wanted her most pressing decision to be more momentous than which gown to wear.
Taking a deep breath, Heather withdrew from her bureau drawer the letter Sloan McCord had written in a bold, slashing hand. At least being a rancher’s wife would present all the challenge she could possibly wish for. More importantly, she could provide valuable service in exchange.
Reluctantly then, she returned downstairs to the parlor and went to stand near the hearth, hoping to draw warmth from the meager fire as she faced her guest. Evan was still seated on the settee, one leg elegantly crossed over the other.
“Evan,” she began with less confidence than she would have wished. “I do not quite know how to put this…”
Again that patronizing smile. “I understand, my dear. You have changed your mind. That is a lady’s prerogative, of course. And in this instance, entirely welcome. I will be the most fortunate of men.”
“No, you mistake the matter,” she said hastily. “I have not changed my mind. Indeed … but… perhaps you should read this.”
It might be cowardly to let Sloan’s proposal of marriage speak for her, but she was sorely lacking in eloquence at the moment.
She handed Evan the well-perused letter, and then watched his expression turn from boredom to curiosity, to disbelief, to outright anger as he read.
“I have accepted Mr. McCord’s suit,” she said quietly, wishing she were anywhere but here.
Evan’s dark gaze rose from the letter to pin her with blistering force.
“I think I understand, my dear,” he replied tersely, biting off his words. “This is a ploy to force my hand. You wish me to settle a larger sum upon you at our marriage.”
Heather opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.
“You disappoint me. I never anticipated that you might resort to such sly stratagems. But … very well. Will a half-million be adequate?”
A half-million dollars.
Heather shook her head, desperation and dismay battling within her. “No, you mistake me entirely. I assure you, Evan, it is no ploy. I truly do not wish to wed you. A marriage between us would never succeed. I could not be the sort of wife you desire. You want a different woman every night—”
He waved an impatient hand. “This is utter foolishness. You are a virtual pauper. Do you honestly expect me to believe you would turn down so vast a sum?”
She clasped her fingers together to still their unsteadiness. How could she convince him she was serious? “I expect… I hope you will do me the honor of believing me. I am speaking the truth. I am flattered by your interest and sorry to cause you any pain—though I cannot believe your heart is truly engaged. But you will recall I told you from the first that I never desired your attentions. You chose not to take me at my word, just as you are doing now.”
His hand slowly clenching, Evan crumpled the letter in his fist. “I have not wasted all these months courting you simply to have you make me a laughingstock.”
“That was not my intention—”
He rose abruptly. Flinging the letter to the floor, he took a stride toward her. “I was willing to offer you marriage. I have never offered my hand to any woman, and you think to spurn me?”
Heather swallowed hard, repressing a twinge of alarm. How could she make him understand? She might be the woman he thought he wanted, but she could not reciprocate his feelings. It would have solved her direst problems if she could have loved Evan, but while she bore him a wary respect, a life of ease with a man of his ruthless ambition would not satisfy her chief goal in life. It was only his wounded pride that made him react as he did now.
She shook her head. Perhaps it was her pride that was driving her to refuse him; heaven knew she had abundance of that human failing. Perhaps she was a fool to reject his magnanimous offer. But she didn’t want to be bought and trapped in an elite but idle society. Evan would never have allowed her to keep her school after their union in any case. Saints forbid that his wife should work. She couldn’t bear to be set on a shelf like some hothouse flower and trotted out for display upon occasion.
She considered Sloan McCord’s proposal a far more equitable bargain. She could bring something of value to their marriage. It would be a worthwhile endeavor, raising his baby daughter. And she could aid his state senatorial campaign, as well. He truly needed her.
Evan Randolf didn’t.
“It… is not you I am spurning. It is just that … we are too different. Our goals are too different. What we want out of life is not the same. I cannot be your wife.”
Randolf took another step toward her. “I intend to change your mind.”
Heather felt renewed alarm. “It is too late for that. I … am to be married tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” For a moment he looked stunned. Then he reached for her, grasping her upper arms in a tight hold. “You forget one small detail, my dear. No one denies me.”
His complexion flushed with anger, he resembled a spoiled boy in the midst of a temper tantrum. Except that Evan Randolf was no boy. He was a powerful man, and his grip on her arms was painful.
“Evan … you are hurting me.”
“Indeed?” The fury in his tone frightened her. “Perhaps that is the answer. I shall have to teach you that it is a mistake to thwart me. If you think I shall simply let you walk away now… If you think I will permit you to choose some common cowman from the savage West over me…”
“Please…”
He crowded her with his body. “I should have taken matters into my own hands from the first. Confound you, I could have closed down your bloody school anytime in the last six months, but I vowed to let you come to me of your own accord. No more!”
His arms forcibly drawing her into his embrace, Evan brought his lips crashing down on hers. Unprepared for his assault, Heather could only struggle impotently. She had been kissed only twice in her life, both times by young gentlemen her own age. Evan’s violence stunned and frightened her.
When at last he raised his head, still keeping her imprisoned, his dark eyes glittered with anger and something else she was woman enough to recognize as savage lust.
“There is a remedy for your reticence, my dear. One night in my bed, and you will be singing a far different tune. Your paragon will not want you then. No man wants damaged goods for his wife. I might not even have you then.”
Her heart leapt in fear at the look in his eyes. She tried again to pull away, but he was too strong for her, too fierce. “No … don’t!” When Evan bent to her again, she fought back a scream.
She tasted rage in his kiss, rage and ruthless determination. Her hands came up to pummel his chest futilely.
She was suffocating; she couldn’t breathe.
Through her daze, she heard a low warning growl, like that of a predatory animal.
Then suddenly Evan was no longer holding her.
“What the—” he uttered as he was wrenched off her.
Her release was so abrupt, Heather’s knees almost gave way. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched, stunned, as Evan was flung across the parlor to land face-first with a thud on the carpeted floor, barely missing the tea table.
Feeling faint, she clutched at the mantel to keep from falling. Evan rolled over and lay holding his jaw, staring up at his assailant.
Shaking, light-headed with relief, Heather shifted her gaze to her savior.
Her eyes went wide. It was he. The bold stranger who had rescued the runaway carriage in the street a short while earlier. He wore his hat now, and the dark brim shadowed his eyes as he stared down at Randolf.
“I believe the lady told you to let her go.”
“Who the devil are you?�
�� Evan demanded.
The stranger tipped his hat back, his eyes as hard as ice. “The name’s McCord.” He shot a glance at Heather, who stood trembling, one hand still gripping the mantel. “I believe I’m the lady’s fiancé.”
Heather’s heart seemed to trip over itself.
Her future husband.
There was almost a visible force about him. He looked dangerous and intense as he gazed fixedly down at Randolf.
Then Evan made the mistake of reaching in his coat pocket to withdraw a derringer. Swiftly McCord’s hand brushed back the front flap of his buckskin overcoat to reveal the revolver strapped to his thigh.
Randolf froze as he eyed the Colt six-shooter.
“I wouldn’t try it.” McCord’s voice was low, deadly, while danger jumped and pulsed around him like fire. “Where I come from, a man doesn’t draw unless he’s willing to die. And he sure as blazes doesn’t manhandle a woman without her permission.”
Wisely Evan eased the weapon back into his pocket.
“Now … I suggest you take your leave before I forget I’m in the presence of a lady.”
Evan seemed to shake himself then. He appeared dazed, disoriented as he sat up. His gaze shifted slowly to Heather, where she still stood unsteadily by the hearth.
“Heather, my dear … forgive me… I never meant to hurt you.” He seemed honestly contrite.
She swallowed. It seemed incongruous for a man of Evan Randolf’s stature and elegance to be sprawling on a parlor floor in defeat. But he deserved worse after his unwarranted attack on her. Evan was no villain, but he had threatened to destroy her because she refused to become his wife. She would find that difficult to forgive or forget.
“Evan … I think it best if you leave.”
“Yes…”
She saw pain in his eyes, and shame. For the first time in her long relationship with him, she wondered if she might have mistaken his feelings for her. Perhaps Evan truly did feel a deeper attachment than possessiveness.
He climbed slowly to his feet. Giving her a long, last glance, he finally turned and quit the parlor, brushing past the young woman who was hovering in the doorway holding a tea tray.
“Oh, miss, are you all right?” Bridget asked faintly.
With a start, Heather realized the maid was watching the scene with wide-eyed dismay, and probably had witnessed the entire incident.
Heather raised a hand to her temple. The situation might have been farcical were it not so serious. It was fortunate she had already closed her school. She would never live down the scandal otherwise.
“Y-Yes… I’m fine. Thank you for the tea, Bridget. Will you set it on the table, please?”
The girl did as she was bid and bobbed a curtsy before withdrawing, leaving Heather alone with the fierce stranger.
Sweet heaven, her future husband.
The parlor seemed too small to hold him. He was more intimidating up close, the sense of hardness, of danger about him, overwhelming. Lean, muscular, and long-limbed, he radiated a vital intensity that made her feel fragile and acutely feminine.
Yet he had given her his protection. Twice. Surely he would not harm her?
She watched nervously as Sloan McCord let his coat close back over his gun. He resembled no gentleman of her acquaintance. His features were all sinewed planes and angles, while beneath high, hard cheekbones, his jaw was shadowed by a hint of stubble. And those eyes… Those remarkable eyes were the color of blue ice, and yet at just this moment, they held concern, an incongruous softness that startled her.
She tensed as he took a step closer.
His gaze dropping to her mouth, he reached up to grasp her chin between a callused thumb and forefinger. His grip was light yet made her skin burn. Protective, infinitely tender, his gaze held a gentleness that reached inside her to touch her soul.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice so low and husky it made her want to tremble.
She could only nod in answer, wetting her lips in instinctive response.
Almost absently his thumb brushed her bruised mouth with a delicate pressure. Heather flinched involuntarily at the spark he ignited with simply a touch.
At her reaction, he went absolutely still. It was as if a mask descended over his face. His concern suddenly vanished, to be replaced by cool wariness.
His hand falling away, he stepped back to put a less intimate distance between them. The silence once again became tense, awkward, at least on her part.
Sloan McCord stood staring at her from beneath the low-riding brim of his dusty black Stetson, assessing her blatantly with those remarkable eyes—eyes that were a shade lighter than the faded chambray shirt showing beneath the open collar of his coat. Once again they were strangers.
“You are Miss Ashford, I take it?”
Heather could scarcely find her voice. “Yes … I am.”
“You seem to make a habit of getting into scrapes, don’t you?”
Any hope that he hadn’t recognized her from their earlier encounter on the street, when she’d worn her bonnet and coat, died a swift death.
Heather felt shame wash through her. Merciful saints, why did her first meeting with Sloan McCord have to be so … humiliating? Not only had he rescued her from being run down by a carriage, he’d saved her from a railroad magnate’s possessive lust.
Mortification stung her cheeks. She was grateful for this man’s intervention, yet ashamed to be so helpless.
His gaze, narrowed and measuring, swept her black gown, her disheveled bodice. She fought the urge to smooth her skirts or rearrange her hair, certain there would be a dozen wisps slipping their pins.
She should have offered her hand for him to shake, yet Heather stood uncertainly, clasping her fingers together.
“How … d-did you get in?” She stumbled over the inane question.
His hard, sensual mouth curled sardonically. “Your maid showed me in.”
“Oh, of course.”
He tilted back his hat further, his expression grim as he gave her the full force of his blue-ice gaze. “Tell me, ma’am, did I interrupt anything important with your gentleman friend?”
“No … Evan … he was merely … disappointed when I refused his offer of marriage.”
McCord seemed to consider her reply. “Cat told me I had competition. But I have to say…” His mouth pressed together in a tight line. “My sister-in-law neglected to tell me one hell of a lot else.”
Chapter 2
It was all Sloan could do to rein in his rioting emotions as he stared at his promised bride. The longing he’d felt when he’d finally gotten a good look at her had been instantaneous, blinding, overpowering. Her familiarity was baffling.
She was his sensual dream lover in the flesh.
Except that in his dream those pale, champagne-blonde tresses had cascaded over her bare shoulders, caressing her luscious breasts, her taut nipples. Now that silky hair was sculpted in a sleek chignon. And now her face was no longer obscured by the night shadows of a dream, or the concealing brim of a bonnet.
He intended to throttle his sister-in-law, Sloan thought grimly. Passable, hell. If Heather Ashford’s looks were merely passable, he was the king of England.
He was stunned by her beauty. She was exquisite in the cool, ethereal way of a goddess, with that delicate, oval-shaped face, that slender, patrician nose, that perfect, porcelain skin.
Lust coiled and tightened in his gut. He couldn’t blame that bastard Randolf for wanting her.
Her eyes were alluring, the shade not quite brown but the rich gold of sherry. Her lips were red and lush and velvety as rose petals. And her smile … soft, tentative, vulnerable. Sloan felt his heart kick against his ribs as she offered him an apologetic smile.
“Forgive me for my rudeness, sir. I … I’m afraid you find me at a loss. Would you care to be seated?”
Sloan swore under his breath. She was still quivering with fear, her cheeks flushed with mortification, yet she was trying to put him at ease. He
would rather see her flushed with passion.
The thought came unbidden: Would she make love the way she had in his dream? The memory of her moving over him, her lush, silken body surrounding him, made him hard in an instant as another tide of unexpected, unwanted arousal hit him.
Damn, he’d gone too long without a woman. And this wasn’t just any woman. Miss Heather Ashford was a lady of breeding all the way down to her lace drawers. She reminded him of royalty, with her gracious manners and her precise, elegant voice. Proud, aristocratic, no doubt very cold and correct. And as helpless as a newborn calf. She couldn’t even cross a city street or fend off an unwanted suitor on her own. Sure as hell not what he was looking for in a wife.
Damn Cat for tricking him.
Sloan tugged off his hat and ran his hand roughly through his hair as he fought the urge to turn and run. What the devil was he doing here? What did he need with a blue blood on his ranch? He was going to kill Cat when he saw her.
Heather was experiencing similar sentiments regarding her friend as she floundered in a sea of agonized embarrassment. This had never happened to her before, this debilitating loss of composure.
Yet as Sloan McCord’s silence deepened, somehow she found the courage to let her eyes graze his. He was giving her a thorough scrutiny, his look almost offensive in its bold assessment of her femininity.
She was supposed to marry this man?
Caitlin had plainly mislead her. As had Winnie. She had expected a gentleman. Mr. McCord was evidently no gentleman. His unruly hair, a rich tawny gold heavily streaked by the sun, was too long to be fashionable. His lean, bronzed features looked as if he’d never seen the inside of a genteel parlor. Yet it was his hardness, his intensity, that unsettled her. He seemed as uncompromising as the Rocky Mountains he called home.
A lifetime of reserve hadn’t prepared her for Sloan McCord. Those light, breathtaking eyes were slightly narrowed, as if permanently squinting against the sun, but there was a coldness, a distrust lurking behind their emotionless gaze. And his hard, chiseled face was set like granite.
The Heart Breaker Page 3