Читать книгу New Way to Fly - Margot Dalton - Страница 10

THE NOISY WEDDING celebration swirled through the entire lower floor of the big Double C ranch house, occasionally spilling out onto the veranda and patio. Lettie Mae Reese and Virginia Parks, cook and housekeeper respectively at the Double C, circulated among the laughing crowd carrying heaped trays of food, exchanging news and jokes with people they seemed to have known all their lives.

In fact, Amanda Walker thought wistfully, everybody here seemed to have known everybody else since birth. The merry gathering exuded family warmth and intimacy. It made her feel lonely and out of place.

Amanda knew hardly any of the people at this party except for the bride, Carolyn Townsend, her new husband, Vernon Trent, and Carolyn’s daughter, Beverly, whom Amanda had met years ago at college. And of course she knew her host and hostess, J.T. and Cynthia McKinney, as well as J.T.’s adult children.

But all these other people were strangers to her, loud-talking sun-browned people with drinks in hand, laughing uproariously and hugging each other and shouting ribald jokes at the smiling couple seated near the fireplace.

Amanda stood quietly beside a curtained alcove, gazing at Vernon and Carolyn, her blue eyes misty with affection. They both looked warmly contented and so deeply in love that when they smiled at each other they seemed to have no connection to the rest of the world. They were alone in their quiet circle of tenderness.

Amanda hadn’t attended the actual wedding ceremony, fearing that her presence might be an intrusion, though Beverly had pressed her to come to the courthouse with the rest of them. Now she wished she’d gone, just so she’d have a memory of these two people exchanging their vows. Vernon Trent and his new wife both seemed so completely happy, so perfect for each other.

Amanda noted as well, with a practiced professional eye, that the bride was dressed beautifully. She wore a trim silk suit of pale smoky mauve that looked wonderful with her fine tanned skin and golden coloring.

From long habit, Amanda glanced around the crowded rooms, playing the familiar game of trying to pick out the best and worst-dressed women guests at the party.

With no hesitation at all she awarded the best-dressed accolade to Cynthia McKinney, even though the woman was very pregnant. Cynthia, who had been one of Amanda’s very first clients, wore a flowing, deceptively simple top of pale glimmering silver that swirled over slim black silk trousers, and she looked graceful and glamorous despite her impressive bulk.

Worst dressed was harder to decide on, Amanda told herself with a wry private smile, because there were some truly atrocious outfits scattered throughout the big room. Bulging velour jumpsuits, low-cut sweaters with rhinestone appliqués, a tight leather miniskirt and patterned panty hose…

Suddenly Amanda’s critical eye fell on the worst mistake of all, a sagging polyester pantsuit of the kind she fervently wished would vanish from the face of the earth. This one was a faded rusty color with shapeless jacket, plastic buttons and a tacky fringed scarf that did nothing at all to improve the look.

The woman, whoever she was, stood sideways with her face turned away from Amanda, and her figure didn’t seem nearly as terrible as her outfit. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with carelessly styled graying auburn hair and weathered skin.

Amanda was eyeing the woman with pained attention, picturing how a soft windblown haircut and some clothes that suited her wholesome fine-boned look would transform this woman. Possibly a rough slub-linen jacket in a raw oatmeal shade, and a longer soft wool skirt with a…

Just then the object of her attention turned to look past Amanda at somebody across the room. Amanda gazed at the older woman’s face, stunned by the expression she saw there. Amanda forgot her criticism of the woman’s clothes, speculations about image improvement, everything but a wrenching sympathy and a passionate desire to help.

“Having a good time all alone in the corner, Amanda? Come on, why aren’t you socializing and getting to know people?”

Amanda turned to smile at her friend Beverly Townsend, who was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and well-dressed women in the room. Beverly’s blue eyes shone with excitement, and her lovely golden face was glowing.

Amanda suspected that at least part of Beverly’s glow was due to the young man behind her. Jeff Harris had paused to joke with a group on the other side of the archway while Beverly tugged impatiently at Amanda’s sleeve, trying to draw her friend out into the room.

Amanda shook her head. “Beverly Townsend,” she teased, “this isn’t a college dorm party, you know. We’re both twenty-five years old. Don’t you think it’s about time you quit trying to line me up with eligible men?”

“Oh, pooh, I’m not talking about men,” Beverly protested, though the mischievous sparkle in her eyes somewhat belied her injured tone. “I’m talking about potential customers. Come on, Mandy,” she whispered, leaning closer to her friend, “look at the clothes some of these women are wearing. Now, could they or could they not use some professional help with their image?”

Amanda nodded. “Maybe,” she said, her eyes falling involuntarily on the tight leather miniskirt and black-spangled panty hose that swayed past Beverly at that moment.

“Oh, her,” Beverly said with scorn, following Amanda’s gaze. “That’s Billie Jo Dumont. Forget it, Mandy, she’s hopeless. She doesn’t have the sense God gave a chicken, or she wouldn’t have come here at all today. It’s hardly even decent,” Beverly added, her blue eyes suddenly fierce.

“Why not?” Amanda asked, bewildered. “I mean, it’s a truly tacky outfit, but you can’t really call it indecent, Bev.”

“No, no, I was talking about her gall, coming to this party.” Beverly leaned closer to her friend. “See the woman by the archway, that nice little lady in the awful polyester pantsuit?”

Amanda nodded, trying not to gaze conspicuously at the woman Beverly indicated.

“Well, that’s Mary Gibson.” Beverly paused for dramatic effect, giving Amanda a pointed significant glance.

Amanda looked at the other woman in puzzled silence. “The name kind of rings a bell,” she said at last, “but I…”

“Bubba’s wife,” Beverly whispered. “Bubba Gibson.”

Amanda’s eyes widened. “The one who’s in jail? He killed somebody, didn’t he?”

“He killed some of his horses for the insurance. If it had just been people he killed,” Beverly added, “folks around here would probably be able to forgive him. But horses, that’s something else altogether. Far, far more serious.”

Amanda gazed at her friend, startled and appalled. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you, Bev?”

Beverly considered. “Maybe a little,” she conceded, “but not much.”

“And the girl in the leather skirt, where does she come into it?” Amanda asked.

Beverly eyed her beautiful dark-haired friend with scant patience. “Come on, Amanda,” she said, sighing. “You’ve been living in Austin for months, and visiting out here all the time, and it’s all anybody’s been talking about. How can you not know what’s going on?”

Amanda shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to gossip,” she said. “You know that, Bev. I’m just not that interested in dishing the dirt.”

“Well, it’s dirty, all right. The girl in the miniskirt, she was Bubba’s mid-life folly long before the mess with the horses. That little affair went on for ages, right under Mary’s nose, and everybody knew it. They were just awful, the pair of them.”

Amanda’s blue eyes widened. She gazed surreptitiously at the gorgeous young woman with her pouting red lips and sumptuous figure, and then at the stiff middle-aged woman in the dowdy suit who stood near the archway.

“The poor woman, Bev. How can she stand it?”

“It can’t be easy,” Beverly agreed with a flash of the generous compassion that often surprised people who didn’t know her well. “And the worst part of it is that Mary’s such a darling. She truly is, Mandy. Everybody loves her. And she’s never said one word against Bubba, not once during this whole mess. If she has opinions, she keeps them to herself.”

She keeps her agony to herself, too, Amanda thought. And it’s probably going to kill her, the poor woman.

“Come with Jeff and me,” Beverly was urging in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “There’s lots of people I want you to meet. You can’t hide here in the shadows all evening, girl.”

“Hmm?” Amanda asked, giving her friend a distracted glance.

“I said, I want you to come with me and…”

“Oh, right. Sure, Bev, in a minute, okay? I just have to…to find a powder room, and then I’ll come right out. Where will you be?”

“On the patio. Just through that door over there,” Beverly said, pointing with a graceful scarlet-tipped finger. “Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t,” Amanda promised. “I’ll be out right away.”

She stood watching with an automatic smile as Beverly took Jeff’s hand, paused to give him a quick kiss and headed for the patio, dragging the handsome young man laughing behind her.

After they were gone, Amanda took a fresh drink from one of the serving girls, exchanged a few cheerful remarks with the youngster and then edged toward the woman by the archway, who was gripping her elbows in white-knuckled hands and staring at the swirling crowd with a blank unseeing stare.

“Hello,” Amanda said in her quiet musical voice.

“My name’s Amanda Walker.”

The older woman turned to look at her with a dismal expression. Then she smiled and her face was transformed. Mary Gibson had a luminous, childlike smile that lit her weathered features and shone warmly in her hazel eyes. Amanda swallowed hard and smiled back.

“I’m Mary Gibson,” the woman said, extending a slim brown hand. “And I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“I saw you on TV. I think you’re just beautiful.”

“Oh.” Amanda’s cheeks tinted a delicate pink when she thought how trivial her show about correct accessorizing must seem to Mary Gibson.

But Mary didn’t seem at all troubled by the superficial glamour of Amanda’s presence or position.

“That one outfit,” she said wistfully, “the one Beverly wore, you know, that was all white with a little trimming around the edges?”

Amanda nodded, gripping the stem of her glass and smiling absently as a couple brushed past her, shouting loudly to someone across the room.

“Well, I thought that was just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Mary said shyly. “And when you showed how the silver earrings highlighted it and brought out the turquoise tones, I could see exactly what you meant.”

Amanda felt a quick rush of pleasure, and a surprising desire to hug the woman.

“You know, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I wasn’t convinced that the image would translate all that well onto the television screen,” she said.

“Watching those commercials of yours, it always makes me wish I was thirty years younger,” Mary went on in the same wistful tone. “It must feel so wonderful to wear clothes like that, and look pretty in them.”

“Why would you have to be younger?” Amanda asked. “You’d look beautiful in clothes like that right now, Mary.”

The other woman gave her a quick wary glance, as if fearful that she was being made fun of. But Amanda returned Mary Gibson’s gaze quietly, her lovely face calm, her eyes warm and sincere.

At last Mary shrugged awkwardly and looked away into the crowd. “That’s just plain silly,” she said in a flat miserable voice. “I couldn’t wear clothes like that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about buying them, and even if I did, I couldn’t afford them.”

“Buying clothes for people is my job, Mary,” Amanda said. “That’s what I do for a living. It’s what the television commercials are all about. And as for the prices, well, it just so happens…”

She paused and set her wineglass on the tray of a passing server, then folded her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers childishly. Amanda always hated telling lies, even tiny little white ones, and she was about to come up with a real whopper.

But she thought about Mary Gibson’s sad defeated look and the sudden childlike wonder of that glowing smile, and steeled herself to plunge on.

“It just so happens,” Amanda said, “that I’ve had a bit of bad luck this past month, Mary. I bought quite a lot of things on spec for a woman who…who got sick, and has to spend a few months in therapy, and she doesn’t feel like buying anything new just now. So I’m stuck with them. And the odd thing is, this woman is just about your size and coloring. I think some of them would be perfect for you.”

Amanda paused for breath and found Mary Gibson staring at her with that same wary cautious look. But there was something else in the woman’s eyes, too, a glint of hope and longing that nerved Amanda to continue with her story.

Not that all of it was a complete lie. The clothes she was talking about did exist, all right. But they were Amanda’s own clothes, hanging in the bedroom closet of her apartment back in Austin.

Amanda allowed herself a brief flash of private humor, thinking how aghast her New York friends would be if they knew that Amanda was proposing, quite literally, to give this virtual stranger the clothes off her back.

But, Amanda told herself, they hadn’t heard Mary Gibson’s story. And they hadn’t seen that small shining smile of yearning. Besides, Amanda wasn’t being completely selfless. There was a plan forming at the back of her mind, a way that she might turn this generous impulse to her business advantage.

“I couldn’t afford clothes like that,” Mary said finally, with a brief hopeless shrug. “They’d be far too expensive for my budget. Things are real tight around my place these days.”

“You might be surprised,” Amanda said. “You see, I’m just starting out in business, Mary, and things are awfully tight for me, too.”

At least that statement was the absolute truth, Amanda told herself grimly, pausing to take a praline from a tray carried by Virginia Parks.

“So, what I’d be willing to do,” she went on, chewing the small sugary confection, almost overwhelmed by the delicious flavor, “is sell you a few of the outfits at cost, just to get them off my hands.”

Mary hesitated. “How much would ‘cost’ be?” she asked after a moment.

“Well, it varies, of course. One of the outfits I’m thinking of particularly is a two-piece suit, kind of a longer Chanel style, in a really soft wool that would be just lovely on you.”

Amanda paused, feeling a tug of regret at the thought of parting with this particular suit, one of her personal favorites.

“And how much would it be?” Mary asked.

“Let me see…” Amanda pretended to calculate.

“My cost, plus shipping expenses, less dealer tax…I could probably let you have it for around a hundred, if you decided you liked it.”

Mary’s weathered face brightened. “Really? That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”

Damn right it is, Amanda thought gloomily. Especially since I paid more than nine hundred for it at Saks just a couple of months ago….

But her face betrayed none of these thoughts. “I think it’s a pretty good deal,” she agreed quietly. “And if you liked, I could bring a few of the other pieces, too, sweaters and blouses and slacks, and you could try them on in private at home before you made a choice.”

“Oh,” Mary sighed. “Oh, my, that’d be so nice. You know,” she added impulsively, gazing at the younger woman, “I think I really need something like this, Miss Walker. My life’s been…”

She paused and flushed awkwardly, then continued. “The way things have been happening, my life hasn’t been all that good lately. And I could really use a little lift like that. Something to make me feel…better about myself, you know?”

“I know,” Amanda murmured. “I know you could, Mary. Everybody needs a lift now and then. When would you like me to bring the things over for you to try on?”

“Oh, any time, I guess. Would it be…would you be coming fairly soon?” Mary asked wistfully.

Amanda nodded, considering the week ahead, reorganizing her schedule rapidly to accommodate another trip to Crystal Creek. If she could bring out the new winter outfits for Lynn McKinney on Wednesday, then she’d be able to…

“Miss Walker?”

Amanda smiled. “You’d better call me Amanda, if we’re going to be doing business together. I was just thinking about my week, Mary. Would Wednesday be good for you? Say about two o’clock?”

Mary nodded, rummaging in her handbag. “That’d be real nice. Just let me find a pen, and I’ll draw a map so you can find my place.”

“No problem,” Amanda said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I’ll be stopping off here and over at the Circle T. Someone can give me directions when I get there.”

“Oh, it’s real easy,” Mary said. “I’m just a few miles out on the other side of town, bordering Brock Munroe’s place.”

“What’s this?” A cheerful male voice came from the other side of the archway, beyond Amanda’s line of vision. “Mary Gibson, are you talking about me behind my back?”

Mary smiled and turned away to peer at the newcomer, who was still hidden from Amanda. “Hi, Brock,” she said. “My, don’t you look spiffy, all dressed up in a suit and tie.”

“I feel like a trained monkey in this rig,” the man with the deep voice said, reflecting such rueful distaste that Amanda smiled and leaned around the archway to see what he looked like.

At the same moment he stepped forward to allow a server past him, and faced Amanda head on. His mouth dropped open, his dark eyes widened, and he stood rooted to the spot, staring at her with such obvious amazement that her pale cheeks became a delicate pink.

But she collected herself almost at once, gave the man a polite smile and calmly returned his gaze.

He was certainly an arresting physical specimen, several inches taller than six feet with a rangy muscular look and an impressive breadth of chest and shoulders to balance his height. His face was tanned and clean-cut, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes warm and alert as he continued to stare at Amanda. When she smiled, he grinned back automatically, one side of his wide mouth lifting in an engaging lopsided grin that showed a flash of beautiful white teeth.

Amanda always noticed people’s hands. This man’s hands were hard and brown, probably as callused on the palms as old leather, but they were beautifully shaped, with fine square palms and long fingers.

Amanda looked back to the man’s shining dark eyes. She was beginning to feel uneasy. Apparently Mary Gibson was also becoming uncomfortable at the intensity with which the man was staring at Amanda.

“Brock, this is Amanda Walker,” Mary said finally. “Amanda, Brock Munroe, my nearest neighbor. He has a ranch right next to mine.”

The tall man broke his gaze with a visible effort and extended his hand. Amanda took it almost reluctantly and felt her own hand swallowed in his firm grip. Brock Munroe’s hand was just as steel-hard and strong as she’d expected. And she was distressed by the sudden tingle of sexual excitement that shivered through her at his touch.

“Amanda does clothes buying and TV commercials, things like that,” Mary explained.

“I know,” the man said abruptly. “I’ve seen her on television.”

He was staring again, as if trying to memorize every line and detail of Amanda’s face.

Or, Amanda thought in warm confusion, as if they were already well-known to each other, lovers meeting again after a long, long separation…

Mary smiled at them and began to edge away, murmuring something about helping Virginia with the buffet, but Brock and Amanda were so absorbed in their sudden and surprising contact that they hardly noticed her departure.

“So,” Brock said with that same abrupt tone, “what exactly is a personal shopping service, Amanda? What is it that you do for a living?”

“I dress people,” Amanda said automatically. “I help them to select a balanced complementary wardrobe, and the proper accessories to achieve a total look. And then I price-shop the stores for them, over as wide an area as I’m able, as well as the catalogues from the better houses.”

The man beside her nodded thoughtfully. Amanda looked up at him with a cautious critical eye, noticing for the first time that his suit had to be fifteen years old, at least, with its old-fashioned lapels and the awkward dated cut of the trousers. And that tie…

Amanda couldn’t help thinking what a shame it was to see a man like Brock Munroe dressed this way. With his beautifully-formed body, he’d look just wonderful in a really well-cut suit.

She stole another glance at his lapels.

“Eighteen years,” he told her quietly.

Amanda looked up at his face, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“This suit. I bought it eighteen years ago for my high school graduation. That’s what you’re thinking, right? That I look real tacky and out-of-date?”

Amanda flushed and then realized with annoyance that this reaction had been as much of a giveaway as her earlier expression of distaste. “Clothes are my business,” she told the man stiffly. “I can’t help but notice cut and style. It’s my job.”

“And you think I’ve failed to deal with all those tiny intangibles that add up to a total look?”

Amanda glanced up at him sharply again, recognizing her own words in his deep teasing voice. Was she being gently ridiculed by this handsome rustic?

“I wasn’t really thinking about your appearance at all,” she lied, trying to keep her voice cool. “I’m just enjoying the party, and I was looking for my friends, actually. I think they’re out on the patio.”

She began to edge away but the man put his big hand on her arm, just below her elbow. To her horror and growing annoyance, Amanda found herself thrilling once again at the warmth and intimacy of that touch.

She jerked her arm and Brock released it instantly. He reached to lift a glass of white wine from a passing tray and handed it to Amanda.

“Thank you,” she said, pausing to sip from the crystal goblet, while struggling to compose herself.

“How do you know Mary?”

The question came as a surprise. Amanda hesitated. “Actually, I don’t,” she said. “We just met today. I have some clothes she’s interested in seeing.”

The man turned to stare at her. “Mary?” he asked in disbelief. “Mary Gibson is hiring a personal shopping service? A professional image-maker?”

Amanda felt another surge of irritation. “Look, Mr. Munroe,” she began, “you’re certainly free to have any opinion you like about my job. But that doesn’t mean that I—”

“What do you like to do?” he asked, ignoring her cool tone. “I mean, when you’re away from the job? What kind of person are you, Amanda? You know, I’ve always thought…” He paused suddenly, looking embarrassed.

“What? What have you always thought?” Amanda asked, intrigued by his sudden discomfort.

“Nothing,” the big man said with a casual shrug. “I’ve always liked to find out what interests people, that’s what I was going to say.”

“You want to know what interests me?”

“Yeah. I want to know what you’re like. I mean, do you spend all your time getting your hair done and reading fashion magazines, or do like to jet-set around the world, or what? When you’re all alone, what do you dream about?”

Amanda bit her lip and stared at him in silence, thinking about his question.

What did she like to do?

The tall man watched her calmly, apparently prepared to wait all day for her response. But Amanda was slowly realizing, to her growing discomfort, that she had no answer to give him.

She didn’t know what she liked to do. The truth was, Amanda Walker hardly knew who she was anymore.

There’d been a time, years ago, when she’d been far more definite about her likes and dislikes. She could remember herself at twenty-one, telling Edward with girlish happiness that she loved running barefoot on the beach, waking early to watch the sunrise across the lake, walking in the woods at twilight and listening to the hushed music of the night birds.

And he’d laughed, gazing at her with raised eyebrows and that wry sardonic grin that had always made her heart turn over.

“My, my,” he’d said with the flat New England twang that sounded so sophisticated to her Texas ear. “What an intriguing little savage we have here. The face of an angel and the soul of a hillbilly.”

Amanda had flushed with embarrassment at her own naiveté. Instantly she’d resolved to be more the kind of woman Edward admired, more cultured and intelligent and in tune with the nuances and realities of his New York life-style.

And she’d certainly succeeded. During the years that she’d been in New York, Amanda Walker had become the toast of their small exclusive circle, a graceful arbiter of fashion, gifted with a sure knowledge of what was correct for every occasion. She was at ease in any group, comfortable with the casual witty patter that was so much in vogue, secure in the knowledge that she was the most elegant woman in any gathering.

But did she like that life?

And if she did, why had she decided to come back to Texas, left Edward behind along with all their friends and embarked alone on this terrifying project?

And it really was terrifying—throwing aside the security of Edward’s arms as well as a large salary and expense account, for the dangers and uncertainties of opening her own business.

“I like to succeed,” she told the man in front of her with a quick defiant lift of her head. “I like the idea of making my own way in the world, taking on something that’s really difficult and making it into a viable and lucrative operation.”

She saw something in Brock Munroe’s face, a flicker of some emotion that looked almost like disappointment.

“And is that all you dream about, Amanda? Being a big success? Is that your whole happiness in life?”

Amanda met his eyes. Then she flushed and looked away, buffeted by a sudden paralyzing wave of yearning when she remembered her dream.

The dream haunted her all the time these days. She saw herself on a grassy hillside, laughing in the sunlight with a baby in her arms. That was the whole dream, just herself and the midday warmth and the comfortable weight of the drowsy infant in her arms. And somehow there was also the knowledge that a man stood nearby, unseen but deeply loved.

The image was always brief, usually invading her sleep in the misty hours just before dawn, and it filled Amanda with a happiness so exquisite that waking to cold reality sometimes seemed like an anguish too great to be endured.

She glanced helplessly toward the patio door and saw Beverly emerge, mouthing something and waving across the crowded noisy room.

“I—I have to go,” Amanda told the dark man in his poorly fitting suit. “My friends are looking for me.”

“In a minute, Amanda,” Brock Munroe said gently, holding her with his eyes. “First, you were going to tell me what you dream about.”

“I dream about clothes,” Amanda told him abruptly, wincing at the harsh arrogant note in her own voice. “And real jewelry and expensive cars. I dream about having lots and lots of money so I can own beautiful things, Mr. Munroe.”

When Amanda saw the disappointment that flickered across Brock’s face, she was tempted to grab his arm and apologize for her lies. She wanted to say, No, no, it’s not true, none of it’s true, that’s not what I’m like at all….

But maybe it was, she told herself defiantly.

Maybe they were all true, the things she’d just told him. Why was she so driven by her need to succeed in business, if not for the pleasures that came along with financial success? And why had she left behind everything she’d once valued, if not to attain a new goal that meant even more to her?

Brock waited politely, but his handsome face was no longer warm with interest. Amanda wanted to say something—anything to dispel the sudden chill that had come between them.

“Mr. Munroe…Brock, look, I just wanted to…” She began with uncharacteristic awkwardness.

But Beverly reappeared at that moment, waving frantically over the heads of people nearby, trying to catch Amanda’s eye.

Conscious of her friend, Amanda paused nervously. Brock smiled down at her with that same distant look of sadness.

“‘Again, the Cousin’s whistle,’” he quoted softly. “‘Go, my Love.’”

Amanda nodded automatically, then turned and stared up him.

“That’s from a Robert Browning poem, isn’t it?”

Brock Munroe nodded, looking down at her intently. “The poem’s called ‘Andrea del Sarto,’” he said. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

“But…” Amanda’s astonishment was evident. “But how…”

“I may be a big simple cowboy in a bad suit, Miss Walker,” Brock said quietly. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy poetry.”

She was silent, still searching for words to express her surprise.

“All you glamorous people don’t own the world, Amanda,” Brock told her quietly, his hard sculpted face empty of emotion. “You don’t have a corner on everything that’s beautiful and worthwhile. The rest of us may be peasants, but we have eyes and hearts and souls just like you do.”

Amanda felt an urgent desire to explain herself, to apologize and show him she wasn’t what he considered her to be. But this emotion was soon overridden by a slow burning outrage.

How dared he be so superior and judgmental, this “simple cowboy in the bad suit,” as he called himself? What gave him the right to express opinions about Amanda Walker, to look at her with such evident disappointment and give the clear impression that she’d been weighed in the balance and found wanting?

“I suppose that’s true,” she told him coldly. “I really wouldn’t know, and I’m not all that interested in finding out, to tell you the truth.”

He nodded, accepting her words as a dismissal.

“Goodbye, Amanda,” he murmured.

“Goodbye,” Amanda said with a small sardonic lift of her beautiful mouth. “It’s certainly been interesting talking to you.”

Then she was gone, moving gracefully off through the laughing throng, conscious of his dark eyes resting on her as she walked away.