Jess Dalton got up and walked to her side of the table, a storm gathering in his dark eyes. He picked up her monogrammed shoulder bag and stared hard at the swirly letters. “‘C.E.M.,”’ he said icily, then handed it back. “You’re married?”
Casey felt herself shrinking away from him as she clutched her purse. “No. Widowed.”
“And your husband’s name was Dane. And you’re from Chicago.”
Her gaze swept the room nervously, then turned hopefully toward the hall, where the dark oak staircase led to the second floor, and probably the bedrooms. “Where’s your grandmother?”
“The same place your late husband is. Casey’s not your given name, is it?”
Every cell in Casey’s body shook. “Look, I know what you’re thinking—”
Color flooded his face, and his voice trembled with anger as Jess struggled to control himself. “Lady, you don’t have a clue what I’m thinking.” Grabbing her arm, he hauled her out of the chair and marched her toward the hall. “You calculating, manipulating little-” He bit back the expletive. “I knew it. I knew you had a different agenda, and I let you snow me.”
“Wait a minute! Give me a chance to explain!” Casey dug in her heels as he propelled her past the antlers, past the hutch, past the Tiffany lamp. The Oriental rug buckled beneath her feet.
“Explain what? How you planned to steal my land?” Jess expelled a short, sarcastic laugh. “Don’t bother, I know all about it. Although I expected a high-powered attorney to come calling with a withered old woman in tow—not a scheming little gold digger who lied her way into my home.”
With tremendous effort, Casey pulled herself free. “I did not lie my way into your home!”
Jess yanked open the door, his dark eyes blazing. “I beg to differ, Mrs. Marshall.” He mimicked her earlier words in a saccharine-sweet tone, though he couldn’t have sounded feminine if his life depended on it. “‘I’ll feel responsible if you drive over an embankment.’” Jess’s voice returned to the normal, nasty tone she was getting used to hearing. “You lied through your pretty teeth. All your dewy-eyed concern for my welfare was nothing more than a means to an end.”
Casey faced him angrily, fed up with his holier-than-thou attitude. “And you were totally up-front with me, I suppose. Poor thing, you only wanted me with you tonight to make sure you didn’t slip into a coma. Getting me into bed was the furthest thing from your mind.”
Jess smiled coldly. “Very good. There’s just one little thing that keeps that argument from working—we both knew I was lying.”
Casey saw a flash of pain cross his features, and he winced. All this shouting wasn’t doing either of them any good. “Look, whether you want to believe it or not, I really was concerned about you. As for not telling you who I am, I just wanted to establish some sort of... rapport... before we discussed the loan.”
“Well, sleeping with me would’ve certainly accomplished that.”
Casey’s anger spiked again. “I wasn’t going to sleep with you. In fact, if you’ll remember correctly, I was going to drop you off outside until you invited me in for coffee. So if you’ll just give me a minute to—”
“Not a minute. Not a second.” Jess shoved the storm door open. “Get out. Get out of my house, get off my land, get out of the state. Find yourself another patsy.”
“I have a signed and witnessed document—”
“You have a goddamn forgery. My brother would never sign away his birthright. Not for any reason. Your husband was just one more greedy, conniving son of a bitch looking to put a heap on his money pile.” He raked her designer clothing with a long, cold look. “Easy to see why he needed it. No man would be able to keep a woman like you around long without a pile of dough.”
Casey stormed out the door and down the steps, hearing the door slam shut behind her. That was enough. If he wanted war, she’d give it to him. She stalked to her car, angrily pulling the keys from her purse. Jess Dalton was going to wish to heaven he’d kept his insulting mouth shut.
Unlocking the trunk, she yanked out her jacket and luggage, then slammed the trunk shut again. She’d finally gotten past the “pretending” part of strength. In his own subtle way, Dane had controlled her life for four long years; no man—and certainly not a sanctimonious bastard in a cowboy hat—was ever going to do it again. Casey saw the house go dark, and then a small lamp flared in an upstairs room. With all the shouting they’d done, if anyone else was home, they’d have flown down the stairs to investigate the commotion. He was alone in there.
Hefting the strap of her overstuffed garment bag onto her shoulder, Casey marched willfully up the path and into the house, flipped on the foyer light, and stamped up the oak staircase. A moment later, she was in the hall and flinging open doors.
Storage. She slammed the door.
A man’s room—probably the gambler brother’s. She slammed that door, too.
The third room was just what she was looking for: a clean, uninspired little room that bore no personal items. A guest room. Casey threw her belongings on the bed.
Two big feet hit the floor in the next room, and a second later, a door she’d originally thought to be a closet flew open and banged against the wall. Jess Dalton glared at her from the doorway that separated their two rooms. He was bare-chested, his jeans were unbuttoned, and he was so livid that the hairs on the back of Casey’s neck prickled with the realization that she’d gone too far.
But only for a moment.
“Just what in holy hell do you think you’re doing?” he thundered, his voice loud enough to shrivel the daisies on the wallpaper.
Casey glared right back at him, her smug gaze never wavering. “I thought it was obvious. I’m moving into my half of the house.”
He moved so swiftly, she barely had time to register shock before he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and took her for a staggering, jarring, bouncing ride down the steps.
He missed a step, and she realized he had masked a few symptoms. “You’re dizzy! Put me down!” Casey struggled to free herself from his grasp. “You put me down before we topple down the stairs and you kill us both!”
His only answer was to heave her back farther on his shoulder. Casey gasped as his arms closed more tightly around her thighs and calves. “You can’t do this to me! I’ll have you jailed! I’ll call your good friend Sheriff Farrell—”
“You do that,” Jess said, leaving the stairs behind and striding into the foyer. “Just don’t forget to tell him you broke into my house.”
Dangling upside down, Casey peered through a veil of blond hair to see the sturdy front door open and the storm door swing wide. A moment later, he was dumping her fanny first on the porch and stalking back inside.
Casey scrambled to her feet and watched in horror as Jess fastened the hook and eye on the storm door. A sick grimace, probably born of exertion, crossed his face. “Remember when I told you there’d never been a good enough reason to lock up the house? Now there is. Good night, Mrs. Marshall.”
The inside door closed, and a dead bolt slammed into place.
For a moment, Casey stood stone-still, stunned by his abominable behavior. Then, galvanized into action, she pounded at the storm door and jabbed the doorbell again and again. “Dammit, you open this door!”
Nothing.
She ground and twisted her index finger into the bell, delighted that it made one of those shrill, penetrating sounds that went straight through a person. “You can’t throw me off my own property!”
She waited for a long moment. Still nothing. “Open this door! It’s freezing out here!”
But he obviously had no intention of doing that. “Fine!” she yelled. “I’ll leave. But I’m calling my lawyer at dawn, and by noon, your precious ranch is going to be somebody’s real estate listing!”
With long, brisk strides, Casey propelled herself back to her rental car, so angry she could barely think straight. That man was going to pay for each and every indignity she’d suffered
at his hands tonight. After everything she’d gone through to get her life back on track—after the horrible mess Dane had left her—she didn’t deserve to be treated like a visiting leper. She would call Chesney and tell him to take the next flight out, and hang the expense. When she foreclosed, there’d be ample funds to handle piddling little fees like first-class airline tickets and luxury accommodations. She glanced scathingly at the dark, wild terrain that encircled her. Though heaven only knew where Mr. Chesney would find luxury accommodations out here in the middle of Cowville.
Shivering, Casey yanked open the car door, climbed inside and reached for her keys, eager to turn on the heater. But the only thing her cold fingers encountered was the ignition housing. She gasped in dismay, groped frantically on the seat for the keys and patted the pockets of her trousers. But even as she went through the motions, she knew her keys were upstairs in Jess Dalton’s guest room, lying with the rest of her things on the bed.
Casey sank back against the seat, springing forward again when her back hit cold vinyl upholstery. “Dammit, Dane,” she groaned, hugging herself in the car’s dark interior. “If you’d only trusted in my love for you, none of this would be happening.”
Jess turned off the spray, then paused briefly as he stepped out of the shower, listening for more threats and bell-ringing. “Thank heaven,” he muttered. She’d finally given up and gone. He toweled himself dry, then walked back to his bedroom and crawled under the covers, draping them over his hips. His head still pounded, but he was fairly sure he was okay. He’d had concussions before—one of them a real dandy, after getting thrown from a horse he was trying to break—and it had been a lot worse than this. If he had a concussion at all, it was probably a mild one. He wasn’t nauseated, and he wasn’t having a problem with his memory. He scowled. If anything, his memory was too clear.
What an idiot he’d been to invite that little maniac back here tonight. And what an ego trip he’d been on, thinking that a woman like that could be interested in him. No, Ms. Blue-Eyed City Girl had money on her mind, not romance. His pillow felt like concrete, and Jess tried to plump some comfort into it. Gingerly he eased his head back down. So she was going to phone her lawyer in the morning. Good. He’d phone his, too, and they’d get to the bottom of this shakedown. When Ross dragged his sorry butt back from Brenda’s, they’d both go see their attorney.
Thoughts of Ross brought back the nagging doubts Jess had been trying to ignore. If the kid wasn’t telling the truth, Jess didn’t know what he would do. It was one thing for Ross to borrow against his wages to pay his gambling debts. But putting Broken straw in jeopardy for a fraction of its worth... Jess sighed explosively, then squeezed his eyes shut and covered them with a forearm. Because something cold and premonitory was rolling through his gut. Something he didn’t want to face.
Casey’s breath clouded in front of her as she crept cautiously up the steps to the small back porch, praying Jess hadn’t locked the back door, too. She was freezing, her fingers were numb, and after half an hour of flirting with hypothermia, she needed to act. With difficulty, she fumbled open the storm door, cringing when the hinges squeaked.
She tried the doorknob.
Casey sent up a silent prayer of thanks as the inside door opened, and she hurried into the warm, dark kitchen. She paused for a moment, frightened to move, for fear of bumping into something and being discovered. But between the faint moonlight coming through the window over the sink and the digital clock glowing on the microwave, there was sufficient light for her to navigate. She tiptoed into the hall toward the front door, and the clothes tree she’d noticed earlier. Then she grabbed the closest jacket and put it on. It was a huge goose down parka, and it felt wonderful.
“Okay, now what?” she murmured under her breath. Now you drink something warm, her mind supplied. But when she checked the coffee maker in the kitchen, she saw that the carafe was empty; he’d dumped it out. And she couldn’t take a chance on making a fresh pot. Even if the noise she made rooting around for filters and such didn’t rouse him, the smell might.
Casey glanced back toward the hall and the steep staircase. Should she try to retrieve her things? she wondered. He slept in the very next room, and if he heard her again... She shivered. She didn’t really think he’d hurt her. Rupert Chesney had told her that Jess Dalton was a respected rancher with strong ties to the community and generations of ranching Daltons behind him—definitely the more levelheaded and trustworthy of the two brothers.
Which seemed to give her another option. She’d cooled off; maybe he had, too. Maybe if she waited the few hours until morning, they could sit down and talk about the loan like civilized people. If things went well, she might even be able to catch the next plane back to Chicago.
Besides, she was tired, she was finally warming up, and the thought of finding a couch and sleeping for a while was enormously attractive. Casey tiptoed back into the hall and cautiously slid open the heavy pocket doors, squinting into the darkness. It looked like...a den...or an office. And there was a big, hulking sofa, just waiting for her.
Then her conscience tugged her thoughts elsewhere. Ever since she’d grudgingly concluded that Jess’s rudeness was at least partially due to his fear of losing his home, she’d been feeling a little more understanding. His condition needed to be checked. All evening long, he’d seemed to fluctuate between extreme discomfort and manic good health, which made her think his western-man machismo could still be hiding a concussion. If so, as daunting a prospect as it was, duty was duty, and she really was obligated—at least in her own mind—to look in on him.
She glanced about nervously. Maybe she could go to the guest room first—grab her jacket and keys. Then, if he did wake up and start yelling again, she could at least drive away. A childhood memory surfaced, and she wondered if this was how Jack had felt when he climbed that magic bean stalk and wound up in the giant’s castle: intimidated and not quite sure which way to turn.
Make a decision! her mind ordered. Follow your instincts. Do what you think is right.
And, unfortunately, the right thing to do was to look in on the sleeping giant upstairs. Casey turned on the foyer light, steeled herself, then gingerly climbed the steps to his room.
She hesitated at his door. Even a soft rap could bring him fully awake, and she certainly didn’t want to do that. Luckily, she didn’t have to. The muted sounds of soft snoring burred from behind his door.
Drawing a shaky breath, she turned the knob slowly and eased her head inside. As she’d hoped, some of the light from the downstairs hall had followed her up, and she was able to see—Blood rushed hotly into her face.
“Lydia?” he mumbled in a groggy voice.
Casey jerked back and closed the door as quickly and softly as terror permitted. Then she flew back down the stairs, her stomach quaking and her nerves leaping like jumping beans along her pulse points. That was good enough. She’d done her medical duty. She’d satisfied herself that he wasn’t comatose.
Shutting off the light and scooting into the den, she wedged herself into the far corner of the couch and prayed she wouldn’t hear footsteps on the stairs. Several long moments later, her heartbeat began to slow and her brain settled down enough to form a few questions.
Who was Lydia?
A wife?
A lover?
Someone who might be returning to the house tonight?
Casey tugged the down parka more tightly around her, trying to curb a new rush of chills. Lydia was an old-fashioned name, she thought, but she seriously doubted it was the elderly woman she’d met earlier tonight—the woman who wasn’t Jess’s grandmother. Lydia was someone close enough to roam the house at will...someone on intimate enough terms with him to enter Jess’s bedroom without knocking.
She swallowed a sudden dryness in her throat. Her nostrils were still filled with the provocative smells of warm man and tangy soap, her mind was still reeling with the sight of his bed so close to the door. Jess Dalton was insensitive
, chauvinistic and crude. He was also long-limbed and beautiful.
And he apparently had no use for covers.
Casey burrowed down into her borrowed jacket, so churned up that she knew she’d never be able to sleep. Everything she’d done in the past four hours was so utterly outrageous, so completely out of character, she’d have had a hard time believing it if she wasn’t huddled down here on Jess Dalton’s sofa. She cast about the dark den in bewilderment, her eyes adjusting enough to be able to distinguish shadowy shapes. Where had she found the courage to go head-to-head with a man eight inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than she was? And where had all the anger come from that allowed her to do it? This wasn’t who she was. She was Casey—dutiful, don’t-make-waves, go-along-to-get-along Casey. At least, that was who she’d been in Chicago.
Dane and the man upstairs had changed all that.
Chapter 3
Jess squinted through his lashes at the bright sunlight filtering through the blinds, then closed his eyes again, still feeling the echo of last night’s headache. It seemed to worsen when he realized that the dreams that plagued his sleep hadn’t been dreams at all—the widow Marshall had actually threatened to sell off half his ranch. Sucking in a sharp breath, he rolled onto a hip, then forced himself to stand. He felt like a train wreck. And as he touched his fingers to the tender lump on his jaw, he knew he wasn’t going to like what he saw when he looked in the bathroom mirror this morning.
Grabbing clean jeans from a drawer, he pulled them on and ambled stiffly toward the bathroom to get some aspirin. He was midway there when the smell of freshly brewed coffee stopped him. Jess bit down hard on his back molars. Good. Ross was home. They could get to the bottom of this loan thing right now.
Accidental Heiress Page 3