Books By Diana Palmer Read online

  "Well?" he persisted, glaring at her. "Yes or no?"

  She lifted her shoulders. "Surely there's someone else."

  "Not someone like you," he returned. His eyes wandered over her, full of appreciation and something much darker that she missed. "You're quality. A real, honest-to-God lady. No, there's no one else who could teach me as well as you could."

  She dropped her eyes to the coffee pot and watched it bubble away.

  "Look on it as a challenge," he coaxed. "Something to fill your spare hours. Don't you ever get lonely?"

  Her face lifted and she studied him. "Yes," she said. "Especially since Uncle died."

  "You don't date?" he said.

  She shifted uncomfortably. There was a reason for that, but she didn't want to dis­cuss it with him, not now. "I like my own company."

  "It isn't good for a woman to live alone. Haven't you ever thought about getting married?"

  "I've thought about a lot of things. What do you want in your coffee?"

  She poured it out and braved the refriger­ator for cream. Inside there was a basket of eggs, some unsliced bacon, some moldy lumps and what appeared to have been but­ter at one time.

  "I don't have any milk, if that's what you're looking for," he muttered.

  She gaped at him. "You have hundreds of cows on this ranch, and you don't have any milk?"

  "It isn't a dairy farm," he said.

  "A cow is a cow!"

  "If you want the damned milk, go milk one of them, then!"

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. He scowled back. Eventually, she gave in with a sigh and put the cups on the table.

  "That's what I like most about you," he said as she sat down gingerly in one of the rickety old chairs.

  Her eyes came up. "What?"

  He smiled slowly, and his blue eyes dark­ened, glittered. "You fight me."

  Her skin tingled at the way he said it. Be­fore she thought, she said, "You didn't like it last night."

  His smile faded. He sighed and lifted the cracked mug to his lips. "I was drunk last night."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. “Things got on top of me. I started thinking about how alone I was—" His eyes shot up, pinning hers. "I didn't ex­pect to see you today. I thought you'd never speak to me again."

  She fidgeted uncomfortably. "We all get depressed sometimes, even me. It's all right, no harm done." She touched her lower lip with her tongue. "Well, no permanent harm, anyway," she added dryly.

  "What you told Patty was true," he said.

  “I didn't really mean that, or what I called you last night," she said, watching him. "You're not an unattractive man, Carson."

  "Pull the other one," he said curtly and put his cup down to light another cigarette. "I've finally got a little money, and I'm working on some investments that will pay a good dividend. But there's nothing about me that would attract a woman, physically or intellectually, and you know it."

  She caught her breath. Did he really be­lieve that? Her eyes wandered slowly over the lean, tough length of him, the powerful muscles of his arms and chest, the narrow flat stomach and long legs. He was devas­tating physically. Even his craggy face was appealing, if it were shaved and his hair trimmed. She remembered suddenly what Patty had said about how he'd be in bed, and she turned crimson.

  He looked up in time to catch that blush and he frowned. "What brought that on?"

  She wondered what he'd say if she admit­ted that she and Patty had been wondering how he was in bed. "Nothing," she said, "just a stray thought."

  "Twenty-six, and you still blush like a virgin," he murmured, watching her. "Are you one?" he asked, smiling faintly.

  "Carson Joseph Wayne!" she exclaimed.

  His blue eyes searched her gray ones. "I didn't realize you knew my middle name."

  She toyed with her coffee cup. "It was on the deed, when I sold you that ten-acre par­cel that used to be part of Uncle's land."

  "Was it?" He sipped some more of his coffee. "You still haven't answered me. Will you teach me?"

  She went hot all over at the way he said it. "Carson, any woman who wanted you wouldn't mind the way you are..." she be­gan diplomatically.

  "This one would," he said harshly.

  She was suddenly jealous and didn't know why. How ridiculous! She touched her tem­ple with a long finger. "Well..."

  "I'm not stupid," he said shortly. "I can learn."

  "Oh, all right," she said with equal curt-ness.

  He seemed to relax a little. "Great. Where do we start?"

  Her eyes wandered over him. God help her, it would take a miracle. "You'll need some new clothes," she said. "A haircut, a shave..."

  "What kind of clothes?"

  "Shirts and slacks and jeans, and a suit or two."

  "What kind? What color?"

  She grimaced. "Well, I don't know!"

  "You'll have to come with me to Phoe­nix," he said. "There are some big depart­ment stores there."

  "Why not Carter's Men's Shop in Sweet-water?" she protested.

  His jaw tightened. "No way am I going in there with you, while old man Carter laughs in his whiskers watching us."

  She almost laughed at the fierce way he said it. "Okay. Phoenix it is."

  "Tomorrow," he added firmly. "It's Sat­urday," he reminded her when she started to protest. "You can't have any business that won't wait until Monday."

  "That sounds as if I'd better not," she laughed.

  "You work too hard as it is," he said. "Tomorrow you'll have a holiday. I’ll even buy you lunch. You can teach me some ta­ble manners at the same time."

  It looked like this was going to be a full-time job, but suddenly she didn't mind. The project might be fun at that. After all, Car­son did have distinct possibilities. His physique was superb. Why hadn't she ever noticed that? She lifted her cup and sipped her coffee while Carson slurped his.

  "That's the first thing," she said, indicat­ing the cup. "Sip, don't slurp."

  And when he tried it, unoffended, and succeeded, she grinned at him. He grinned back and a wild flare of sensation tingled up her spine. She'd have to be careful, she told herself. After all, she was revamping him for another woman, not herself. And then she wondered why that was such a depressing thought.

  Chapter Three

  If it had sounded like a simple thing, help­ing Carson buy clothes, Mandelyn soon lost her illusions.

  "You can't be serious," he told her, glar­ing as she tried to convince him that a pale blue pinstriped shirt with a white collar was very trendy and chic. "The boys would laugh me out of the yard."

  She sighed. "Carson, it's a whole new world. Nobody has to go around in white shirts anymore unless they want to."

  "What kind of tie would I wear with that...thing," he asked shortly, while the small salesman hovered nearby chewing on his lower lip.

  "A solid one, or something with a small print."

  "God save us," Carson burst out.

  "And with a solid colored shirt—say, pink—you'd wear a striped tie."

  "I'm not wearing pink shirts," he re­torted. "I'm a man!"

  "A caveman," she agreed. "If you don't want my advice, I'll go buy a tube of lip­stick."

  "Hold it," he called as she started to walk away. He stared down at the packaged shirt. "All right, I'll get it."

  She didn't smile, but it took an effort. Her eyes went over him. He was wearing a beige corduroy jacket and a worn white turtle-neck shirt and tan polyester slacks. He'd had a haircut and a shave, though, and already he looked different. In the right clothes, he'd be an absolute knockout, she realized.

  After a few minutes, she convinced him that striped shirts weren't at all effeminate, and he bought several more in different colors and ties to match. Then she coaxed him toward the suits.

  The salesman took him to the changing rooms, and when he came back minutes later in a vested blue pinstriped suit wearing a blue shirt and burgundy tie, she almost fell off her chair. He d
idn't look like Carson anymore, except for the rigid features and glittering blue eyes.

  "Oh, my," she said softly, staring at him.

  His expression softened just a little. "Will I do?" he asked.

  "Yes, you'll do," she agreed, smiling. "Women, look out!"

  He smiled reluctantly. "Okay, what else do I need?"

  "How about something tan?" she asked. "One of those Western-cut suits."

  He tried one on, with similar results. He had just the physique to look good in a suit, and the Western cut showed it off to perfec­tion. She let the salesman point him toward some sports coats and slacks, and then after he had paid for his purchases, she talked him into two pairs of new boots and a gray Stet­son and a brown one to top it all off.

  Just before they left the store she remem­bered some items they hadn't shopped for. She turned, but she lost her tongue immedi­ately when she tried to say what was on her mind.

  His eyebrows arched. "Something wrong?"

  "Something we forgot," she said hesi­tantly.

  A corner of his mouth pulled up. "I don't wear pajamas."

  "How about things to go under them?" she said finally, averting her eyes.

  "My God, you're shy," he laughed, astonished.

  "So what?" she returned, her whole stance belligerent. "I've never gone shop­ping with a man before. And do you have socks?"

  "I guess I'd better go back, hadn't I?" He put the parcels in the car. Then he opened the passenger door and helped Mandelyn inside.

  "Will you be all right here until I get back?" he asked.

  "Sure," she said.

  "Won't be a minute."

  She watched him walk away, and smiled. Transforming him was getting to be fun, even if it did have its difficult moments.

  Her eyes went over the interior of the car. It was spotless, and she guessed that he'd had the boys give it a cleaning for him, be­cause it had never looked so clean. Her hand reached out to touch the silver arrowhead he had suspended from the rear-view mirror and she frowned slightly as she realized what it was attached to. It was a blue velvet rib­bon, one she remembered having lost. She'd worn it around her hair in a ponytail one day years ago when Carson had come to see Un­cle Dan. She remembered Carson tugging the ponytail, but she hadn't looked back, and later she'd missed the ribbon. It was odd, that a man as unsentimental as Carson would keep such a thing. Perhaps he liked the color, she thought, and turned her eyes back toward the store. It was hot, and there was no shade nearby. She fanned herself with her hand.

  Minutes later, he came back, tossed his parcels into the trunk and climbed in beside her.

  "I'm sorry, honey," he said suddenly, studying her flushed, perspiring skin. "I didn't expect to be so long. There was a crowd."

  She smiled. "I'm okay."

  He studied her eyes for a long moment, and his face seemed to go rigid. "Oh, God, you're something," he said under his breath.

  The passion in his soft words stirred something deep inside her. She stared back at him and couldn't drag her eyes away. It was a moment out of time. Her eyes dropped involuntarily to his hard mouth.

  "Don't,” he laughed roughly, turning back to twist the ignition key savagely. "Keep those curious glances to yourself, un­less you want me to kiss you again."

  He'd shocked her, and her face showed it. She wondered if he wanted her. Then she re­membered Patty and went cold. Her eyes gazed out the window. If he had any emo­tion in him at all, it would naturally be for Patty. Wasn't the object of this whole cru­sade to make him into a man Patty would want? She crossed her long legs with a sigh and stared out over the city.

  "Hungry?" he asked after a minute.

  "I could eat a salad," she agreed.

  "Rabbit food," he shot back. "You can get that any day."

  Her eyebrows arched. "That sounds like you're taking me someplace special," she said, glancing at him with a grin. "Are you?"

  "Do you like crepes?" he asked.

  Her eyes lit up. "Oh, yes!"

  He smiled faintly. "A cattleman I know told me about a place. We'll give it a try."

  It turned out to be a hotel restaurant, a very classy one. Mandelyn had definite mis­givings about how this was going to turn out, but she'd never be able to teach Carson any manners without going into places like this. So she crossed her fingers and followed him in.

  "Do you have a reservation, monsieur?" the maitre d' asked with casual politeness, his shrewd eyes going over Carson's worn jacket and polyester trousers. "We are very crowded today."

  There were empty tables, Mandelyn could see them, and she knew what was going on. She touched Carson's arm and whispered, "Give him a tip."

  "A tip?" Carson growled, glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that threatened to fry him to a crisp. "A tip, hell! I want a table. And I'd better get one fast, sonny, or you and your phony French accent are go­ing right out that front door together." He grinned as he said it, and Mandelyn hid her face in her hands.

  "A table for two, monsieur?" the maitre d' said with a shaky smile and a quick wave of his hand. "Mais oui! Just follow me, s'il vous plait!"

  "Tip him, hell," Carson scoffed. "You just have to know the right words to say."

  She didn't answer. All around the exclu­sive dining room, people were staring at them. She tried to follow some distance be­hind him; maybe she could look as if she were alone.

  "Don't hang back there, for God's sake, I'll lose you," Carson said, gripping her arm to half drag her to the table the maitre d' was indicating. "Here. Sit down."

  He plopped her into a chair and jerked out one for himself, "How about a menu?"

  The maitre d' turned pink. "Of course. At once."

  He signaled a waiter with almost comical haste. "Henri will take care of you, mon­sieur, mademoiselle," he said, and bowing, beat a hasty retreat.

  Henri moved to the table and presented the menus with a flourish. "Would mon­sieur and mademoiselle like a moment to peruse the menus?" he asked politely.

  "Hell, no, we want these crepes," Carson said, pointing at the entry on the menu. "I'll have about five. Get her two, she needs fat­tening up. And bring us some coffee."

  Mandelyn looked under the table, wondering if she might fit beneath it if she tried hard enough.

  Henri swallowed. "Oui, monsieur. Would you care for a wine list?"

  "Hell, what would I do with that?" Car­

  son asked, glaring belligerently at the waiter.

  "I don't give a damn what kind of wine

  you've got. Want me to give you a list of my herefords, lot numbers and all? I've got sev­eral hundred."

  "I will bring the coffee, monsieur!" the waiter said quickly, and exited.

  "This is easy," Carson said, smiling at Mandelyn. "And they say it's hard to get service in fancy restaurants."

  She covered her face with her hands again, trying to get her mind settled so that she could explain it to him. But meanwhile, he'd spotted a fellow cattleman across the room.

  "Hi, Ben!" he yelled in that deep, slow drawl that carried so well out on the range— and even in this crowded restaurant. "How's that new bull working out? Think your cows will throw some good crossbreeds next spring?"

  "Sure hope so, Carson!" the cattleman called back, lifting his wineglass in a salute.

  Carson didn't have anything to salute back with, so he raised a hand. "So that's what the wine's for," he told Mandelyn. "To make toasts with. Maybe I better order us a bottle."

  "No!" she squeaked, grabbing his hand as he started looking around for Henri.

  He stared pointedly at her long, slender hand, which was wrapped around half of his enormous, callused one. "Want to hold hands, do you?" he murmured drily. His fingers caught hers, and all at once the rowdy humor went out of him. He searched her gray eyes. His fingers smoothed over her skin, feeling its texture, and her heart went wild.

  "Soft," he murmured. "Soft, like your mouth." He stared at her lower lip for a long moment. "I'd like to kiss yo
u when I was sober," he said under his breath, "just to see how it would feel."

  Her fingers trembled, and he felt it. His hand contracted and brought hers to his mouth. "You smell of perfume," he breathed huskily. "And you go to my head like whiskey when you look at me that way."

  She tried to draw her hand back, but he wouldn't let go of it.

  "You said you'd teach me," he reminded her with a slow smile. "I'm just getting in some practice."

  "I said I'd teach you manners," she re­plied in a high-pitched tone. "You don't threaten maitre d's and waiters and yell across classy restaurants, Carson."

  "Okay," he said, smoothing the backs of her fingers against his hard cheek. "What else shouldn't I do?"

  "What you're doing right now," she whispered.

  "I'm only holding your hand," he said reasonably.

  But it didn't feel that way. It felt as if he were reaching over the table and taking pos­session of her, total and absolute possession of her mind and her heart and even her body.

  "Mandelyn," he whispered, as if he were savoring the very sound of her name, and she realized with a start that he'd hardly ever said it. It was usually some casual endear­ment when he spoke to her. He made her name sound new and sweet.

  She watched his dark head bend over her hand with wonder, watched his chiseled lips touch it, brush it with a tenderness she hadn't imagined him capable of. Her breath caught in her throat and tremors like the harbingers of an earthquake began deep in her body.

  "Carson?" she whispered back.

  His eyes lifted, as if he'd heard something in her voice that he wasn't expecting.

  But before he could say anything, the waiter was back with the coffee.

  "Where are my crepes?" Carson asked curtly.

  "It will be only a minute, monsieur, just a minute," Henri promised with a worried smile and a fervent glance toward the kitchen.

  Carson stared after him. "It had better be," he said.

  Henri retreated, and Mandelyn had to smother a grin. "You do come on strong, don't you?" she managed with a straight face.

  "I learned early that it was the only way to come out on top," he returned. "I don't like being put down. Never did."