Читать книгу Beloved - Diana Palmer - Страница 7

Simon Hart sat alone in the second row of the seats reserved for family. He wasn’t really kin to John Beck, but the two had been best friends since college. John had been his only real friend. Now he was dead, and there she sat like a dark angel, her titian hair veiled in black, pretending to mourn the husband she’d cast off like a worn coat after only a month of marriage.

He crossed his long legs, shifting uncomfortably against the pew. He had an ache where his left arm ended just at the elbow. The sleeve was pinned, because he hated the prosthesis that disguised his handicap. He was handsome enough even with only one arm—he had thick, wavy black hair on a leonine head, with dark eyebrows and pale gray eyes. He was tall and well built, a dynamo of a man; former state attorney general of Texas and a nationally known trial lawyer, in addition to being one of the owners of the Hart Ranch Properties, which were worth millions. He and his brothers were as famous in cattle circles as Simon was in legal circles. He was filthy rich and looked it. But the money didn’t make up for the loneliness. His wife had died in the accident that took his arm. It had happened just after Tira’s marriage to John Beck.

Tira had nursed him in the hospital, and gossip had run rampant. Simon was alluded to as the cause of the divorce. Stupid idea, he thought angrily, because he wouldn’t have had Tira on a bun with ketchup. Only a week after the divorce, she was seen everywhere with playboy Charles Percy, who was still her closest companion. He was probably her lover, as well, Simon thought with suppressed fury. He liked Percy no better than he liked Tira. Strange that Percy hadn’t come to the funeral, but perhaps he did have some sense of decency, however small.

Simon wondered if Tira realized how he really felt about her. He had to be pleasant to her; anything else would have invited comment. But secretly, he despised her for what she’d done to John. Tira was cold inside—selfish and cold and unfeeling. Otherwise, how could she have turned John out after a month of marriage, and then let him go to work on a dangerous oil rig in the North Atlantic in an attempt to forget her? John had died there this week, in a tragic accident, having drowned in the freezing, churning waters before he could be rescued. Simon couldn’t help thinking that John wanted to die. The letters he’d had from his friend were full of his misery, his loneliness, his isolation from love and happiness.

He glared in her direction, wondering how John’s father could bear to sit beside her like that, holding her slender hand as if he felt as sorry for her as he felt for himself at the loss of his son, his only child. Putting on a show for the public, he concluded irritably. He was pretending, to keep people from gossiping.

Simon stared at the closed casket and winced. It was like the end of an era for him. First he’d lost Melia, his wife, and his arm; now he’d lost John, too. He had wealth and success, but no one to share it with. He wondered if Tira felt any guilt for what she’d done to John. He couldn’t imagine that she did. She was always flamboyant, vivacious, outgoing and mercurial. Simon had watched her without her knowing it, hating himself for what he felt when he looked at her. She was tall, beautiful, with long, glorious red-gold hair that went to her waist, pale green eyes and a figure right out of a fashion magazine. She could have been a model, but she was surprisingly shy for a pretty woman.

Simon had already been married when they met, and it had been at his prompting that John had taken Tira out for the first time. He’d thought they were compatible, both rich and pleasant people. It had seemed a marriage made in heaven; until the quick divorce. Simon would never have admitted that he threw Tira together with John to get her out of his own circle and out of the reach of temptation. He told himself that she was everything he despised in a woman, the sort of person he could never care for. It worked, sometimes. Except for the ache he felt every time he saw her; an ache that wasn’t completely physical….

When the funeral service was over, Tira went out with John’s father holding her elbow. The older man smiled sympathetically at Simon. Tira didn’t look at him. She was really crying; he could see it even through the veil.

Good, Simon thought with cold vengeance. Good, I’m glad it’s hurt you. You killed him, after all!

He didn’t look her way as he got into his black limousine and drove himself back to the office. He wasn’t going to the graveside service. He’d had all of Tira’s pathetic charade that he could stand. He wouldn’t think about those tears in her tragic eyes, or the genuine sadness in her white face. He wouldn’t think about her guilt or his own anger. It was better to put it all in the past and let it lie, forgotten. If he could. If he could….