Читать книгу Any Man Of Mine: A Waiting Game / A Loving Arrangement - Diana Palmer - Страница 11

HER TOES TINGLED. She’d never felt such a wild surge of emotion and it came up suddenly, stunning her.

Nicholas began to chuckle, the deep sound of it faintly irritating.

“My God, what an expression,” he murmured, leaning back against the seat with a heavy sigh. “I thought that would get your attention.”

She glared at him. “Now that you’ve got it, what are you going to do with it?” she asked grumpily.

He glanced at her. “Get you back to the present. I loathe self-pity. Wait until I’m in Paris. I’ve got enough problems of my own without your dragging new ones from the past.”

“What kind of problems?” she probed.

His lips compressed. “Maria.”

Maria was his mistress. Keena had read about the relationship in the gossip columns long before Nicholas had introduced the two of them. It shouldn’t have bothered her. He was, at forty, an active, virile man, and it would have been absurd to expect him not to have women. But one evening soon after he’d picked up the volatile brunette, Keena had seen them together in a popular night spot dancing so close that the fabric between them seemed to burn. And she’d begged her escort, a harmless young man who’d only lasted one date, to take her home. She couldn’t bear the sight. She’d hated the surge of jealousy, but it had persisted until even now she could hardly bear to hear Maria’s name.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“She won’t believe it’s over,” he said curtly. “She’s calling me in tears twice a day, moaning over the lonely life I’ve condemned her to. Lonely, my foot, with two diamond necklaces, a new Porshe and an ermine coat!”

“Maybe she really does miss you,” she muttered, able to be generous now that she knew he’d lost interest. She felt strangely relieved.

“She misses the Rolls, honey, not me.” He laughed shortly.

“Was it good in bed?” she asked, tongue in cheek, and darted a glance at him.

“The Rolls or me?” he replied, refusing to be ruffled.

“I imagine she misses the warmth,” she retorted, grinning at him.

His dark eyes smiled at her. “Do you think I’d be warm?”

“Like a blast furnace, I’d imagine,” she said demurely. “Is that why you’re going to Paris, to escape Maria?”

“It isn’t funny,” he said, the smile fading.

“No, I don’t suppose it is, to you.” She shot him a teasing glance. “But your love life is like one ongoing adventure to me. I really think you should assign the girls numbers or something so you can keep things in order.”

“I’m delighted that my private life amuses you so,” he said in a chilling voice.

“You could always tease me about mine,” she said grandly.

His dark eyes cut around toward her. “You don’t have one,” he said. “Not a love life, anyway.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What makes you so sure?”

“I keep a sharp eye on you, little one,” he said with a somber tone that startled her. “Sharper than you know. You don’t sleep around.”

She glared at him. “Maybe I should hire a private detective of my own!”

“What do you want to know?” he asked with a wicked grin. “Go ahead, ask me. I’ll tell you.”

She glared at him again. “I’d just love to ask you something so personal it would embarrass you to the roots of your hair.”

“Dream on, honey,” he returned with a smile.

She sized up his muscular, imposing physique. “I’ll bet you crush them,” she murmured absently.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Is there only one position?” he asked in all innocence.

The blush started at her hairline, worked down into her cheeks, seeped into her throat and down into the plunging neckline of her dress. And he sat there and watched her and laughed softly, lazily, as if the sight delighted him.

“Instead of the theater, I’d better start taking you to some X-rated movies,” he murmured. “Your education is sadly lacking.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could manage a retort, he picked up her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. It was unexpected, and the sensation it caused made her heart turn over wildly. He caught her eyes, holding them in the dim confines of the car until she felt as if she’d never get her breath again.

He drew her forearm against his lips, sliding it past his rough cheek, holding her eyes the whole time, studying her like some rare and beautiful thing he’d captured.

“I use my elbows,” he whispered, drawing her imperceptibly closer, his voice caressing, seductive. “And I’ve never had a single complaint. Would you like me to prove it?”

Her heart was hammering wildly in her trembling body. She stared at him and couldn’t look away, and she was suddenly afraid.

“Little coward,” he murmured, watching the expressions chase each other in her eyes. “Are you really afraid of me?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m hungry,” she lied.

“For me?” he asked humorously.

She tore her hand out of his grasp and edged back into the corner by the door, glaring at him like some fierce little animal.

“You’re priceless,” he chuckled. “Did you think I was going to make a pass at you in front of Jimson?”

“Jimson is trained not to look,” she reminded him, her voice strangely breathless. “And it’s not kind of you to make fun of me.”

“I can’t help it. You rise to the bait so sweetly.” He cocked his head at her, his eyes watchful. “Haven’t you ever wondered in all these years what kind of lover I’d be?”

She averted her eyes then dropped them. “Yes,” she said finally, because she’d never made a habit of lying to him.

“Well,” he prodded. “What did you think?”

She glanced at him with unfamiliar shyness. “That you’d be heavy,” she grinned.

He laughed softly. “And what else?” he persisted.

She shrugged. “Tender,” she said softly. Her eyes met his across the space. “Patient. A little rough.”

“Not demanding?” he asked quietly, and there were deep undercurrents in the conversation.

“Are you?” she asked involuntarily.

“It depends on the woman,” he replied. “But I can be patient. And tender, when I need to be.”

“How...how do you like a woman to be?” she asked breathlessly.

He stared at her, his eyes darkening, his face hardening with emotion, and there was an electricity between them like nothing Keena had ever experienced.

“The Palace, sir.” Jimson’s pleasant voice interrupted their wordless communication as he stopped the car in front of the exclusive restaurant.

Keena drew in a breath in relief, wondering what had gotten into her to make her ask such an intimate question. It must be my age, she thought wildly, waiting for him to come around and open her door.

“I think we’re going to have to do some talking when I come back from Paris,” he said on the way inside, “I’ve got something in mind that might benefit us both.”

“You want me to design you a wardrobe!” she said with mock enthusiasm. “Something suitably flashy, but elegant, to go with this car. Frankly, I don’t think the job’s for me, but...”

“Damn you!” He burst out laughing in spite of himself. “Come on and feed me before I take a bite out of you!”

It was impossible not to notice as they made short work of filet mignon and lobster, buttery rolls, a salad and rich red wine that he was paying more attention to Keena than he was to the food.

She stopped in the act of lifting a piece of steak to her mouth, staring across the white linen-covered table at him. “Why are you watching me so closely?” she asked with a faint laugh. “Afraid I’m going to try to walk out with the silver?”

“You remind me of a pixie,” he murmured absently. “Mischievous little face, teasing eyes slanted just a bit at the corners, perfect little mouth. You look as if you’re out of place in this setting, and I’ve only just noticed it.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” she reminded him, “and I’d hardly fit under a leaf in somebody’s forest.”

“Twenty-seven,” he echoed quietly. His dark eyes narrowed. “And you barely seem half that to me.”

“It’s because you’re so old,” she told him with mock seriousness. “Entering the golden years, where your bones creak and your eyesight is slowly dimming...”

“Damn you,” he growled harshly. “Shut up!” His tone was venomous, so controlled that it seemed to shudder with sudden rage.

It was unexpected, and it silenced Keena immediately. She’d always teased Nicholas, from the beginning, and often about his age. He’d always laughed. But tonight she’d caught him on the raw for the first time, and he wasn’t laughing. His face had snapped closed like something untamed. His eyes were the only things in his broad, hard face that seemed alive, and they were blazing with menace. She’d only seen Nicholas this angry once, when one of her coworkers had gotten miffed when she refused his advances. Nicholas had intended to surprise her in the office that day and had come in on them unexpectedly. Keena was sure that she could have subdued the young man without any help. But Nicholas, summing up the situation with a glance, had not stopped to ask for an invitation to rescue her. She’d learned later that he’d broken the young man’s jaw. And ever since she’d carefully avoided antagonizing him.

Until now. And it hadn’t been deliberate. “Nicholas, I was only teasing,” she said softly.

That didn’t calm him a bit. He picked up his wineglass with a grip that threatened to snap the slender stem and drained it in one huge gulp.

“Nicholas, please,” she whispered, shivering a little in the face of his white-hot anger. “Don’t be angry with me.”

He set the wineglass down with slow, deliberate movements before he pinned her with his eyes. “I’m forty, not eighty, and all the parts still work. If you don’t believe that, ask Maria,” he added icily.

She chewed on her lower lip. She hadn’t meant to pull the lion’s tail, but he was reacting in a way she’d never expected. Amazingly, she felt tears prick at her eyes and that was new, too. She hadn’t cried for years. But she felt tears damming up in her eyes now.

She put her napkin down very gently, avoiding Nicholas’s blazing eyes. “Uh, if you don’t mind, I’ve an early start tomorrow,” she managed in a shadow of her normal tone.

“Would you like dessert?” he asked with glacial courtesy.

She stared at him with a brave but trembling arch in her chin. “Only if I get to pour it over your head,” she managed with dripping sweetness.

For an instant, amusement vied with anger in his face, but it was quickly subdued. “Let’s go, then,” he said.

She preceded him out of the restaurant after he’d paid the check, walking quickly, her slender legs rippling the sensuous velvet of her dress, her head held as regally as a princess’s.

“Careful you don’t sprain your neck,” he chided.

“Your temper’s more in danger of a sprain than my neck is,” she countered coolly. “If you’d rather brood for a while, I can get a cab back to my apartment,” she added. “I’ve had a pretty rotten day so far, and tonight isn’t making up for it.”

“Stop it,” he growled, nodding to Jimson as they reached the car. He opened the door for Keena as Jimson got in under the wheel and cranked the engine.

“I didn’t start it,” she returned, avoiding his hand as she got into the seat that he was holding the door open to. She moved as far away from him as possible when he got in beside her and closed the door.

“Don’t pout, for God’s sake,” he shot at her with a hard glare.

She returned the glare with interest. It was the first major argument they’d had, and it was beginning to set records for antagonism.

“I’ll pout if I damn please!” she flared up, hunched in her corner. “Why don’t you go find Maria if you want a sparring partner? I didn’t try to lure you into my bed and then refuse to let you go when you were tired of me.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you got me into your bed,” he returned with malice.

She started to make a smart remark back, but she was suddenly too tired to make the effort. It had been a perfectly horrible day; and it was just getting worse. Now her only friend was furious with her, and she wanted to wail.

They rode in a tense silence until Jimson pulled up at the curb in front of her apartment house and sat looking straight ahead while Keena reached for the doorknob.

But a big, warm hand got there first, holding hers where it rested on the handle.

“Not like this,” he said heavily, his tone strained. “I can’t leave for Europe tomorrow with a sword between us.”

“Why not?” she countered, not looking at him. “I’ve seen you walk away from worse—and laugh.”

“Not you,” he said quietly. “Never you.”

The tone of his voice more than the words calmed her. She turned slowly and looked up at him. He was closer than she’d realized, his dark eyes only inches away, the warmth and fragrance of his big body permeating her, drowning her in sensation.

“I don’t think you’re old,” she whispered unsteadily, affected by him as she’d never been before. “I’ve never paid any attention to the age difference. It never mattered.”

His dark eyes searched hers with a scrutiny that made her nervous. “Tease me about my size, or my money, or my temper. But leave birthdays out of it from now on.”

She swallowed. “All right, Nicholas.”

He removed his hand from hers as if it burned him. “I’ll see you when I get back. It may take two weeks to close this deal, so don’t expect me before the middle of February.”

Two weeks without him. The bleak winter was going to move even slower until he returned, and she was just realizing how empty her life was going to be without those unexpected visits and phone calls. He’d been away from the city for long periods before and it hadn’t bothered her. But suddenly it did, and she looked up at him with a curious frown above her pale green eyes.

“You look strange,” he remarked.

“We haven’t argued in a long time. In fact, I don’t really think we ever did,” she said gently, her eyes troubled.

“Perhaps we’re more aware of each other now,” he said, his voice unusually quiet as he looked down into her eyes.

“Aware?” she whispered.

His breath came hard and quick as he looked down at her soft mouth with an intensity that made her heart race. It was as if he was kissing it, and her lips parted involuntarily, her eyes half-closed at the intensity of the gaze.

“I can almost feel your mouth under mine. Do you know that?” he murmured in a voice like deep velvet. “Your lips trembling, your breasts swelling against me...”

“Nicholas!” she burst out, half gasping, half angry, at the intimacy of it.

“If Jimson wasn’t sitting up front trying not to see us, I’d give you a damned sight more than words to remember me by,” he growled harshly. “I’d wrestle you down on the seat and teach you things about your body you’ve never dreamed it could feel. And you want it,” he added with a level gaze that made her knees melt. “Don’t you?”

Her body was trembling madly. She gaped at him, hating her own reactions, hating him for sensing them.

“You’re my friend,” she choked.

“I’m going to be your lover,” he replied curtly. “Think about that while I’m gone.”

She got out of the car quickly, almost tripping in her haste while Nicholas sat there and watched her with unholy amusement, his eyes glittering with triumph. He knew how he affected her. He had too much experience, damn him, not to know.

“Maybe I won’t be here when you get back,” she cried with a pitiful attempt at self-preservation, at pride.

“You’ll be here,” he said, and closed the door.

“You’ll be lucky,” she muttered as the elegant taillights of the Rolls disappeared into the night. She didn’t realize how prophetic the words were. The next morning her father’s doctor called to tell her that her only surviving relative had been found dead in his bed. Her father was gone.

* * *

THE FUNERAL HAD been harrowing, and Keena was grateful when it was over at last, when her father’s few well-meaning friends had gone and the house was finally peaceful.

She thumbed through the documents on his desk with a faint smile. It had been so like him to leave everything neat, in order. It was almost as if he’d expected the massive coronary that had taken his life.

The will was just as straightforward as Alan Whitman had always been. It left the house to Keena, along with pitifully few possessions. It saddened her that the entire estate barely amounted to the profits her business realized in one day.

She got up from the desk and stood at the window. Her father had never allowed her to give him any money to provide him with even a new car. He and his daughter had been close, but like her he valued his independence. He wanted nothing that he hadn’t earned himself, although he was pleased with her success and frequently told her so.

She looked through the window at the narrow road that ran by the front of the house to the small town beyond. How many of her old classmates would know her now? she wondered. In adolescence she’d been a gangly, painfully shy girl with clothes that always seemed to hang on her, and an eternal slump. Most of the other students had laughed at her, boys and girls alike, and had made fun of the way she dressed, the walk that they said had the grace of a pelican running. She was as out of place in the small town as a sparrow would have been in a den of hawks. Alan Whitman had moved here from Miami, settling in this pleasant section of south Georgia with a mind toward starting his own business. But illness had slowed him down, diminished his resources, and he’d had a daughter to support. So he’d taken a job at the local textile mill, just until he could get on his financial feet again. But he’d been trapped by house payments and car payments and doctor bills into keeping the hated job, and he’d found all too soon that there was no way out. He was stuck.

His spirit was all but broken by the long hours, and there was no laughter in the big house he’d spent his life savings on. He had dozens of get-rich-quick schemes that fell through quickly. He spent his life looking for the rainbow, but all he found was the pants line of the manufacturing company.

Keena sighed bitterly at the irony of life. Her father had gotten poor making clothes, while she’d gotten rich. Even now she looked the part of the wealthy career woman in her chic designer jeans and wide-sleeved silk blouse. The emeralds on her ears and her wrist were real, not the paste ones she’d loved to wear as a poor teenager.

How long ago it all seemed now, those brief, secret meetings with him in the woods, the first few kisses that led a naive Keena to an apartment owned by one of James’s friends. Tall, dark-headed, with vivid blue eyes under thick black lashes, James Harris had been the darling of the social set, a young attorney with promise. Keena had known that it was disastrous to care about him, but her heart had ignored her mind and gone end over end every time it saw him. She couldn’t begin to look at another boy, or even Larry Harris, who worshipped her.

If only she’d realized that he had never had any intention of marrying her. She’d been too blinded by her own feelings to realize that James was keeping his relationship with her a secret from everyone. He’d never even stopped by the house to see her, or pick her up there for one of their few dates, and he was careful to stay away from public places. They spent long hours in his car at the local lover’s lane, necking, until one night when the kisses grew suddenly longer and slower and deeper, and he suggested that they go to his friend’s apartment to have a snack before he took her home. They both knew why they were going, and it had nothing to do with food. Keena, young and naive and with her first passion for a man in full bloom, went trustingly.

She was expecting all the fiery passion and tenderness of every romantic novel she had read. But James, for a supposedly practiced lover, was carelessly intent on his own satisfaction. He hadn’t even bothered with taking time to study the softly curving young body he’d taken so quickly and roughly.

“Get your clothes on fast,” he’d said the minute he was through, leaving Keena confused, frustrated and ashamed of her easy capitulation. He didn’t even look at her as he dressed. “Hurry!” he’d called over his shoulder. “Jack could come in any minute. He told me I could only have the apartment for an hour.”

She’d dressed hurriedly, tears streaming from her eyes, her body feeling bruised, violated. She’d expected a loving word or two, but there had been none of that.

She’d followed him to the door, and he’d taken her back to the end of her driveway, careful to stop the car in the privacy of the alley so that no one would recognize it.

“Sorry I had to be so quick,” he’d said with a half smile. “Next time it will be better. I’ll find another place.”

There wasn’t going to be a next time, and she’d told him so, her voice shaking with disappointment.

“Well, what did you expect, rose petals and fireworks?” he’d burst out. “I thought you cared about me.”

“I did,” she’d wept.

“I don’t want any part of your fears, Keena. There are too many willing girls.” And he’d driven away.

Keena had sweated out the next few weeks, and she hadn’t relaxed until she knew she wasn’t pregnant. But her love for James hadn’t eased. She watched for him; she listened for the phone. But he didn’t even try to get in touch with her. In desperation she accepted his brother Larry’s invitation to a party at the Harris home, hoping for just a sight of James, a sign that he wasn’t really through with her. It had just been an argument, after all. He’d talked about marriage, about an engagement. Perhaps he was giving her time to think. Of course, that was why he hadn’t called. And all that gossip about James and Cherrie was just that—gossip. So what that Cherrie was the daughter of a prominent local attorney, and a voluptuous blonde? It was Keena whom James really cared for.

She accepted Larry’s invitation, wondering if he knew how she felt about his brother, if that might account for that odd, vague pity she often read in his eyes. In later years she’d wondered, because Larry had seemed to wait deliberately until she was in earshot to talk to James the night of the party.

She’d worn a dress of white crepe, which she’d made from material bought with money she earned working in the local grocery store at the checkout counter. Even then she’d had a flair for fashion, creating her own design. The dress had caused a mild sensation, even on a mill worker’s daughter. But James had only spared her a sharp glance when she’d walked in on Larry’s arm. He hadn’t asked her to dance or greeted her. Neither had his father or mother, in fact, unless those cold smiles and curt nods could be classified as such.

She’d been only a few feet away when she heard Larry ask James, “Doesn’t Keena look like a dream tonight?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” came the terse reply. “Why in hell did you have to invite her here tonight? Mother may play Lady Bountiful to the workers, but she won’t care much for her son dating one,” James reminded him with a short, cold laugh. “Keena’s father is, after all, just one of our spreaders. He isn’t even an executive.”

“He’s nice,” Larry had defended.

“My God, maybe he is, but he’s as dull as a winter day, just like his skinny daughter. She’s plain and stupid, and she’s practically flat-chested to boot. Believe me, it was like making love to a man...”

She’d felt Larry’s shock, even at a distance. “Making love?” he breathed.

Keena hadn’t stayed to hear any more. With her eyes full of tears and her makeup running down her white face, she’d left the house and walked every step of the way home in the dark without thinking about danger. And those cold, hurting words had stayed with her ever since. They’d been indirectly responsible for her success, because her hatred for James Harris and her thirst for revenge had carried her through the lean, hard times that had led up to her enrollment in the fashion design school. All she’d wanted in life from that terrible night forward was to become something more than a mill worker’s daughter—an outsider. And she had.

There was a discreet tap on the door before Mandy came in like a small, dark-haired whirlwind, her dark eyes sparkling.

“Brought you some coffee,” she said, placing a tray on the coffee table. A plate of doughnuts rested temptingly beside it. “Come on, you’ve got to eat something.”

Keena grimaced at her housekeeper. “I don’t want food,” she said. “Just coffee. You be a love and eat the doughnuts.”

“You’ll blow away,” the older woman warned. “Why bother to bring me down here with you if you aren’t going to let me cook?”

“It gets lonely here,” she replied. She gazed around her at the towering near-ruin of a house. It must have been a showplace years before her father bought it, but lack of care and deterioration had taken their toll on it. Without some substantial repairs, it was going to fall in.

“Did you reach the construction people?” Keena asked as she stirred cream into a cup of steaming coffee.

“Yes,” Mandy replied, looking disapproving. “Look, it’s none of my business, but why are you going to funnel good money into this white mausoleum?”

Keena ran a lazy hand over the faded, worn brocade of the antique sofa. “I’ll need to have the furniture redone, as well. See if you can find an upholsterer while you’re at it.”

“How long are we going to be here?” Mandy asked curiously.

“A few weeks.” She laughed at Mandy’s obvious shock. “I need a break. I can run the company from here. Ann can call me if she needs help. And meanwhile, I’ll play with mending this pitiful house.”

“I wish I knew what you were up to,” Mandy sighed.

“It’s a kind of game,” Keena explained with a smile.

“And is Nicholas going to play, too?”

Keena glared at her. She didn’t want to think about Nicholas right now. “He’s a friend, nothing more. Just because we go out once in a while...”

“Twice a week, every week, and he protects you like a mother hen,” Mandy corrected.

Keena shifted uneasily. “Nick’s like a brother. He feels responsible for me.”

“Some brother,” Mandy scoffed. “You should have noticed the way he was watching you at that Christmas party we gave. He started scowling every time another man came near you. He’ll be along, Miss Independence, or I miss my guess. No way is Nicholas going to let you spend several weeks down here without doing something about it.”

“What do you expect him to do, come and drag me back home?” Keena asked curtly.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” came the equally brusque reply.

“You,” Keena told her with a mock scowl, “are a professional busybody.”

Mandy grinned. “Thanks. About time you paid me a compliment or two for these gray hairs you’ve given me.”

Keena laughed, studying the little salt-and-pepper head. “Not so gray,” she returned.

“You going to see that Harris man?” Mandy asked suddenly with narrowed eyes.

Keena met that gaze levelly. “Maybe.”

“Good thing, too. Get him out of your system once and for all.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Memories are dangerous, you know. They’re always better than reality.”

“That’s why I came back to face them,” Keena admitted.

She stretched hugely and got up from the sofa. “We’ve been getting some interested glances since I had the corral and stable fences repaired and bought that mare.” She smiled. “I think I’ll go for a ride.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that this property joins the Harrises’?” Mandy asked.

“In back,” Keena agreed. “I used to rent a horse to ride. I saved all my money just to catch a glimpse of James Harris in the woods. Maybe I’ll get lucky today,” she added with a smile and a wink.

* * *

IT WAS CHILLY in the woods, and Keena was glad of her jodhpurs and boots, the thick cashmere sweater she put on over her silk blouse, the warm fur-lined gloves on her hands and the thick tweed hacking jacket. She’d never been able to afford a decent kit in her youth, so it was something of a thrill to be able to wear it now. It almost made up for those rides she’d gone on with Jenny Harris, James’s sister, in worn jeans and a denim jacket that Jenny was too sweet to make fun of.

She paused by a small stream, her eyes closed, taking in the cold, sweet peace of the woods, the sound of water running between the banks, the sudden snapping of twigs nearby.

Her eyes flew open as another horse and rider came into view. A big black horse with a slender man astride him, a dark-haired man with blue eyes and an unsmiling face. He was wearing a tweed jacket, too, over a turtleneck sweater. The hands on the reins were long-fingered, and a cigarette dangled in one of them.

“You’re trespassing,” the man said. “This is private property.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him, ignoring the wild beat of her heart as she felt the years between her last sight of him fall away.

“The property line is two paces behind you,” she replied coolly. “And if you care to look, there’s a metal survey stake—quite a new one. I had the property lines resurveyed two days ago.”

His eyes narrowed as he lowered them to her slender body, past her high, firm breasts to her small waist and flaring hips, clearly outlined by her tailored riding gear.

“Keena?” he asked as if the thought was incredulous. His eyes came back up to her lovely, high-cheekboned face framed by black hair that feathered around it, her pale green eyes like clear pools under her thick lashes.

She allowed herself a smile. “That’s my name.”

“My God, you’ve changed,” he murmured. His eyes went to her wrist, and he smiled faintly. “Except for that habit of wearing gaudy costume jewelry. I’m glad something about you hasn’t changed.”

She wanted to hit him with the riding crop, but that would have been more in character in her adolescence than it was now. She’d learned control, if nothing else.

“Old habits die hard,” she replied with a bitter smile.

“How true,” he murmured. “I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a good worker. There’s a small insurance policy, of course. You might check with the personnel office about that. You got the flowers we sent? A potted plant, I think...”

“They were very nice, thanks,” she replied.

“Are you still living in Atlanta?” he asked politely.

“New York,” she corrected.

He made a distasteful face. “Nasty place. Pollution and all that. I prefer Ashton.”

She stared at him, letting the memory merge with the reality. He’d changed. Not just in age, but in every other way. He looked older, less imposing, less authoritative.

“How’s Jenny?” she asked quietly.

“Doing very well, thanks. She lives with her husband and son in Greenville. Larry’s married,” he added pointedly. “He lives in Charleston.”

“I heard that you and Cherrie married,” she said.

His face drew up. “She and I were divorced two years back,” he said coldly.

She shrugged. “It happens.”

He was staring at her again, his eyes thoughtful. “I can’t get over the change. You’re different.”

“I’m older,” she replied.

“Married?” he asked, openly curious.

She shook her head. “I have a career.”

“In textiles?” he asked with a faint smile.

She paused. “In a matter of speaking, yes.”

He laughed shortly. “Sewing, I suppose.”

“That, too.” She patted the mare’s mane. “I’ve got to get back. Nice seeing you,” she said with a parting smile.

“I’ll drop by before you leave for home,” he said unexpectedly.

She gave him her best smile. “That would be nice,” she managed huskily. “But you needn’t rush. I’ll be here for several more weeks.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Can you spare that long from your job?”

“I have a wonderful, understanding boss,” she returned. “See you.”

And think about that, she laughed to herself as she let the mare have her head on the way back to the stable.

What Ashton needed, she decided, was a party. A big, lavish, New York, society-type party, so that she could show her dear old friends how much the gangly textile worker’s daughter had changed. Just thinking about it brightened her dark mood. Before she got back to the house, she was already planning her strategy, from redecorating and renovation, to the caterers. This was going to be an absolute delight.

* * *

IT WAS LIKE having a houseful of relatives come to stay when the carpenters and decorators descended on them. Keena couldn’t move without bumping into a ladder or a pile of lumber.

“They’re multiplying,” Mandy moaned one morning, watching two carpenters hard at work trying to replace a portion of the kitchen ceiling. “And how can I cook?”

“Make two plates full of sandwiches.” Keena laughed. “Maybe if we feed them enough, they’ll work faster. And don’t spare the coffee.”

“You’re the boss,” Mandy sighed, shaking her head as she moved toward the cupboard.

“Hey, lady, somebody’s at the door!” one of the electricians called, pausing with a length of cord in one hand.

She squeezed past a painter on a ladder, her jeans and pale blue T-shirt making her look younger than her years, clinging outrageously to her long, graceful legs and the soft, full curves of her body. Her hair was curling softly around her face, and some of the strain of big business had fallen away despite the grief this trip had started with. She felt younger, more relaxed and more feminine.

“Hey, guys, there’s a Rolls-Royce out there!” one of the carpenters whispered to his friends, stunned.

Keena paused with her hand on the doorknob. It couldn’t be James Harris, even though that was whom she’d expected after their confrontation two days ago. The Harrises had money, but not enough to run a Rolls. She knew only one man with that kind of careless wealth, and she hadn’t dreamed—despite Mandy’s prediction—that he’d come here.

She twisted the crystal doorknob and pulled the wide door open. The man standing there towered over her, as broad as a wrestler, all hard muscle and determination, with a craggy face and dark eyes that were devouring every inch of her.

“So here you are,” he growled, his voice reminiscent of the last time she’d seen him, and remembering it made her flush slightly. “I’ve had a hell of a time finding you. Mrs. Barnes said you called the apartment to see if I’d come home, but all you told her was that you were going home to Georgia.”

“And you couldn’t remember where that was?” she asked with a sweet smile.

“It’s a damned big state,” he replied curtly, staring past her at the gaping workmen who were openly curious about the newcomer in the gray suit. “I had to hunt through your old personnel file to find out your hometown. I couldn’t remember it.”

“You didn’t think to call my office?” she asked.

“I got back only yesterday,” he said under his breath. “Sunday, madam, and your people don’t work on Sunday.”

She drew in a steadying breath. Seeing him again was causing her heart to do acrobatics. “My father died,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “Was it quick?”

She nodded. “Very.” She looked up at him with sad eyes, and wished she could have run to him when they’d called to tell her. His arms would have felt so good, and she could have cried in them. “Did you think I was in hiding?” she added with a mirthless laugh.

“Hide, here?” He glared at the workmen. “You’d have hell trying with this crowd. It looks like a damned construction site in here.”

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

“My insurance company wouldn’t like it,” he said bluntly, with a wary eye on the two carpenters up on ladders just inside the open door.

“Well, we could sit in the porch swing,” she suggested, gesturing toward it.

His eyes followed hers. Two boards were missing in strategic places. His dark eyes danced and just for an instant she caught a glimpse of something different in them.

“Not unless you want to sit on my lap and give your audience something to stare at,” he replied. “Besides that, it’s blasting cold out here, and you aren’t dressed for it.” He caught her arm. “We’ll sit in the car and talk for a minute.”

“Lecherous thing,” she murmured, following him to the car quickly to get out of the biting cold. “You’ll probably lock me in and try to seduce me.”

“There’s an idea,” he agreed, putting her in the passenger side of the Rolls. “Slide over.”

She made room for him, feeling swallowed as he slid one huge arm around her and gave her the benefit of his warmth against the faint chill of the car.

“Some idea,” she murmured. “You’ve never even made a real pass at me.”

He leaned down, his face suddenly closer than it had ever been before, so close that she could see the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the thickness of his eyelashes, the faint shadow around his firm, chiseled mouth. An expensive fragrance, a familiar fragrance, clung to his big, warm body.

“You never wanted it before,” he reminded her. His eyes went to her mouth, pale without lipstick, and her heart rocked at the sensuous look in his glittering eyes. “Not until the night I left for Paris. But this is as good a time as any to satisfy your curiosity, little Miss Purity. Let me show you how I kiss.”

He leaned closer, brushing his parted lips against hers before she had time to protest. The tenderness of the action paralyzed her, and in a trance, she watched his mouth touch and lift and brush against hers in a silence that was suddenly sparkling and alive with new sensations, new awareness.

His strong white teeth nipped softly at her lips, tugging them deftly apart as his tongue tasted, slowly, the inner curve of her upper lip.

She gasped at the contact, her eyes looking straight into his, seeing shadows that had never been there before.

“You taste of coffee,” he said in a deep, sensuous tone.

“I...had it...for breakfast.” Was that her voice, that high-pitched, husky stammer? She felt as rigid as a board, tense, waiting for something with a hunger that was as shocking as the look on Nicholas’s face.

“I think I’ll have you for breakfast,” he murmured, and she watched his mouth open slightly as it fitted itself expertly to her soft, tremulous lips. “Open your mouth,” he whispered against the silken softness. “Don’t make me force you.”

“Nicholas?” His name came out as a gasp when she felt his big, warm hands cupping her face, barely aware of his body half covering hers, crushing her back against the soft leather in a warm, breathless embrace.

He didn’t answer her. His mouth was hard and warm and faintly cruel as it moved with slow deliberation deeper and deeper into hers. Her heart felt as if it were on a merry-go-round. She was spinning, flying.

“Oh,” she whispered, shaken, into the hard mouth laying claim to her lips.

His tongue went into her mouth, teasing, withdrawing, causing sensations she’d only dreamed about before. Something devastating was happening to her.

One of his big, warm hands left her cheek and eased down to the soft cotton fabric over her breast. He took the weight of it into his cupped palm, savoring its softness, testing its firmness, and she gasped at the newness of his touch, drawing back to look into his dark eyes.

“You don’t wear a bra, do you?” he asked in a slow, tender voice. “You don’t need one, either. Your breasts are so soft, Keena, firm and soft and warm under my hands.”

“Nick...” she gasped, drowning in the sure touch of his fingers, probing, caressing.

She caught his hand and stilled it, half-frightened.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered. “Nick...”

“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured deeply. “Say it again.”

She felt like a fish out of water, floundering. She couldn’t get her breath at all, and her mouth throbbed with both his possession of it and her own hunger to have him do it again. She lowered her eyes to his white shirt.

“Shy of me?” he asked softly. “After all these years?”

She looked up at him warily. “We’ve never made love before,” she whispered unsteadily, keenly aware of his fingers still resting lightly on her breast.

“I wouldn’t call this making love,” he corrected quietly, studying her wild eyes. “Why don’t you want me to touch you?”

She blushed furiously, hating her foolishness, her lack of sophistication, hating his mocking laughter.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked, removing his hand to ruffle her dark hair.

“I’ve got to go back inside,” she ground out.

“Not yet. When was the funeral?”

“A week ago.”

He scowled. “And you’re still here?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Her lips compressed stubbornly. She wasn’t going to be talked out of this, not now. She told him why she was staying, in no uncertain terms, tacking on, “And the first guest I’m inviting to the party is James Harris.”

His dark eyes seemed to burst with flame as he stared down at her.

He knew that Keena had loved James Harris and that he had hurt her badly because Keena had cried her heart out on his shoulder one night after too many whiskey sours on an empty stomach—one of those rare occasions when she drank hard liquor. But he’d never learned exactly what Harris had done to her to cause her so much pain. All he knew was that he’d never let James Harris hurt her again.

“You’re crazy as hell if you think I’m going to let that creep get his hands on you,” he said in a cutting voice.

“And just what do you think you’re going to do about it, Nicholas?” she demanded with more courage than she felt. The long, searching kiss and the touch of his big hands had knocked half the fight out of her.

He moved away from her, got out of the car and stood back to let her get out of the car. “I fight with no holds barred,” he reminded her with a strange, cool smile. “And I’ve put in a lot of years on you. I’m not about to stand by and watch you put your pretty neck into a noose.”

“It’s my neck,” she murmured.

He tilted her chin up and bent down to her, brushing his mouth slowly, softly, against hers with something like possession in his dark eyes. He watched her helpless reaction with a smile. “I told you before I left for Paris that one day I was going to be your lover. That day’s closer than you think, sweetheart, and you’re hungrier for me than I’d imagined. Ripe, ready to be picked.”

“I’m not an apple,” she ground out.

“No, you’re a peach,” he corrected with a last, soft kiss. “A sweet, juicy little peach that I could eat. But first, I’m going to have to knock you out of the tree.”

She glared at him as he went around the elegant hood of the Rolls and got in under the steering wheel. “You’d better get a big stick, Nicholas Coleman!” she cried.

He only laughed. “No, honey, you had. I’ll be back.”

And before she could fire a retort, he drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving her standing there in the cold.