Books By Diana Palmer Read online

  "They aren't trying to put you down," she began.

  "Like hell," he said, smiling coldly.

  She moved restlessly in her chair. "Life­styles among the well-to-do are differ­ent."

  "You and I are pretty far apart, aren't we?" he asked quietly.

  "Oh, I don't know," she murmured. "I used to think I'd enjoy going fishing once in a while, in a pair of old dungarees and a worn-out shirt."

  "Did you? I could take you fishing some­time, if you like."

  She looked up, half amused, and it dawned on her that she hadn't ever seen him smile as much as he had this one day. "Could you?"

  He let his eyes run slowly over her. "I could loan you some old jeans and a shirt, too." He leaned back and lit a cigarette. "After all, you ought to get something out of this deal. You teach me what I need to know. And then I'll teach you a few things." He was looking straight at her when he said it, and she tingled all over.

  Henri came back with the crepes seconds later, and Mandelyn was able to damp down her suddenly intense awareness of Carson while she instructed him in the use of flat­ware.

  "Why don't they just give you a fork and let it go at that?" he grumbled when she'd explained the formal arrangement of knife, forks and spoons.

  "Because it's etiquette," she told him. "Besides, you can't very well eat soup with­out a soup spoon, or sweeten tea without a teaspoon, or..."

  "I get the idea," he sighed. "I suppose you'd never forgive me for eating peas on my knife.”

  She laughed softly. "I think you might make a record book or two for managing that."

  "It's easy," he returned. "All you have to do is get mashed potatoes on the knife and dip it in the peas."

  She burst out laughing at the mischief in his eyes. "I give up."

  "Not yet, you don't. Eat your crepes. You could use a few extra pounds. You're too thin."

  Her eyebrows arched. "I never would have expected you to notice something like that."

  He didn't smile. "I notice a hell of a lot about you, Mandelyn."

  Once again, the way he said her name made her head swim, and she actually blushed. Her gaze fell back to her plate while Carson slowly cut his crepes.

  Minutes later, after a companionable si­lence and a second cup of coffee, they sam­pled the restaurant's strawberry crepes.

  Mandelyn licked whipped cream from her upper lip and Carson watched the action with an expression she didn't understand. She lifted her eyes to his and felt tremors along her spine.

  "It's sexy, don't you know?" he said un­der his breath as he read the question in her eyes.

  "Eating whipped cream?" she laughed nervously, deliberately misunderstanding him.

  "Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean."

  She ignored him and her quickened heart­beat, and finished her crepe.

  “How about a movie before we go back to Sweetwater?" he asked.

  "Sorry," she laughed. "I have some pa­perwork to do before I go to bed."

  He didn't like that. His eyes glittered across the table at her. “Do you work all the time?"

  "Don't you?" she returned. "I can't re­member a time in the past few years when you actually took a vacation."

  "Vacations are for rich men," he said, dropping his eyes to his coffee cup. He toyed with it idly. "Maybe every one's right. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a rancher."

  "What else could you be?" she teased.

  "What do you mean, that I'm too crude and stupid to be anything but a cattle­man?" he asked coldly. His voice carried so that people at the other tables immediately looked to see if he fit his own description of himself.

  "That's not what I meant at all, and will you please lower your voice?" she asked in a squeaky tone.

  "Why should I?" he asked curtly. He threw his napkin down on the table and stood up, glaring around him. "And what are you people staring at?" he asked haugh­tily. "Who wrote the rules and said that you have to keep your eyes down and speak in whispers and never do anything out of the ordinary in a snobby restaurant? Do you think the waiters here drive Lincolns—is that why you're so afraid of them? Do you think that head waiter has a villa on the Riviera and owns stock in AT&T?" He laughed coldly while Mandelyn seriously considered hiding under the tablecloth. "These people that wait on you are no better or worse than any of you, and you're paying to be here just like I am, so why are you all letting these stuck-up dudes push you around?"

  The cattleman a few tables over who was a friend of Carson's burst out laughing.

  "Hell, yes, why are we?" he burst out, grinning. "You tell 'em, Carson!"

  A lady closer to their table glared at Car­son. "It's amazing the kind of people they allow in these restaurants," she said with hauteur.

  Carson glared back at her. "Yes, isn't it?" he agreed with a speaking glance. "And it's amazing how many people think they're better than other people because of what they've got, right, lady?"

  The lady in question turned red, got up and left.

  "Please sit down," Mandelyn pleaded with Carson.

  "You sit. I'm leaving. If you're coming with me, come on. And where the hell is the check?" he demanded of a trembling Henri. "I want it now, not when you get around to it."

  Henri was writing it as he came, his hand shaking. "Here, monsieur!"

  Carson took it and stormed out toward the cashier, leaving Mandelyn to fend for herself. She got up quietly and walked slowly out of the dining room, her poised serenity drawing reluctant admiration. She was Miss Bush of Charleston from her head to her toes.

  But serene was the last thing she felt when she caught up with Carson in the parking lot.

  "You hot-tempered, ill-mannered, over­bearing son of Satan," she began, her small fists clenched at her sides, her eyes throwing off silvery sparks, her hair glinting with blonde fire in the sunlight.

  "Flattery won't work with me," he as­sured her, grinning at her display of temper.

  "Get in, firecracker, and I'll take you home."

  "I've never been so embarrassed...!" she began.

  “Why?"

  "Why!"

  He stared at her as she stood rigidly be­side the car, not opening her door. "Well, get in," he repeated.

  "When you open the door for me," she said icily. "Women's lib or not, it is good manners."

  With a resigned sigh, he went around and made an elaborate production of opening the door, helping her inside the car and clos­ing it again.

  "I'll never go anywhere with you again as long as I live," she fumed when he'd climbed in beside her and turned the key in the igni­tion.

  "You started it," he reminded her as he pulled out onto the highway. "Making that crack about my ignorance..."

  "I did no such thing," she shot back. "I simply asked what else you'd do. You love cattle, you always have. You'd be miserable in any other job and you know it.”

  "You meant that I wasn't capable of do­ing anything else," he returned, his eyes growing fiery again.

  "I can't talk to you!" she ground out. "You're always on the defensive with me, you take everything I say the wrong way!"

  "I'm a savage, remember?" he asked mockingly. "What else do you expect?"

  "God knows," she said. She turned her eyes out the window to the long, arid stretch of land that stretched toward the horizon. "None of this was my idea," she reminded him. "I don't care if you eat peas off your knife for the rest of your life.''

  There was a long, pregnant silence. He lit a cigarette and smoked it quietly as the miles went by. Eventually, she glanced at him. His face was rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead. He looked unhappy. And she felt guilty about that, guilty about losing her temper. He wanted Patty, and without some polishing, he'd never get her. He must know that and the knowledge was eating him alive.

  "How far did you get in school?" she asked suddenly.

  He took a deep, slow breath, and wouldn't look at her. "I have a bachelor's degree in business administration, with a minor in economics."


  She felt shocked, and it showed.

  "I got my education while I was in mili­tary service, in the Marines," he told her bluntly. "But that was a long time ago. I've lived hard and I've worked hard and I hav­en't had time for socializing. I hate pre­tense. I hate people lying to each other and cutting at each other and pretending to be things they aren't. Most of all," he added hotly, "I hate places that put you down on the basis of your bank account. God, how I hate it!"

  He must have spent a good part of his youth being looked down on, humiliated. Her heart thawed. She reached out and touched his sleeve very gently, and he tensed even at that light touch.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Sorry that I lost my temper, that I yelled at you."

  "I have scars," he said quietly. "They don't show, and I try to forget them. But they're pretty deep."

  She dropped her eyes to his stubborn, square chin. "Still want to take me fish­ing?"

  "I reckon."

  "How about Monday?"

  He hesitated, and her eyes came up.

  "You work on Monday," he reminded her, and there was a strangely puzzled look about him, as if he hadn't expected her to take him seriously.

  "So I'll play hookey." She grinned.

  He laughed softly. "All right. So will I."

  She settled her head back against the seat with a sigh. "If you'll put the worm on the hook," she added. "I'm not committing homicide on any helpless worms."

  Later, she thought about that sudden de­cision to take a day off—something she never did—and go fishing with Carson, of all people. How odd that he'd never men­tioned that business degree he held, almost as if he was ashamed of it. She felt vaguely sorry for him. Carson wasn't a bad man. He had wonderful qualities. He'd stayed two nights with old Ben Hamm and his wife on their ranch when the couple had the flu. He'd fed them and taken care of them, and then paid their utility bills for the month be­cause Ben had been unable to work for a week and had gotten behind. Then there was the poor family that he'd "adopted" for Christmas. He'd bought toys for the kids and had a huge turkey with all the trim­mings delivered to their home. Yes, Carson was a caring man. He just had an extremely hard shell, and Mandelyn decided that he probably had plenty of reasons for it. What would it be like to know the man beneath the shell? She fell asleep on the thought.

  Chapter Four

  Bright and early Monday morning she called Angie at home and told her she wasn't coming in to the office.

  "I'm going fishing. I'll call in later to see if there are any messages," she told the younger woman.

  "Fishing?" Angie burst out.

  "Why not?” she replied.

  "Excuse me, Miss Bush." Angie cleared her throat. "It's just that I never thought you'd like fishing."

  "Well, we'll both find out after this morning. Have a good day."

  "You, too."

  Mandelyn didn't own a pair of old jeans. She wore a slightly worn pair of designer jeans with a colorful striped pullover shirt and sneakers, and left her hair long. She looked a little less proper than usual, she decided finally.

  Carson wasn't outside when she drove up, and she hesitated at the front door when he called for her to come inside. It was a little unnerving to be totally alone with him, but she chided herself for her continuing feeling of uneasiness with him and went inside any­way.

  "Just be a minute," he called from the back of the house. The bedrooms must be located there, but she'd never seen them.

  "Take your time," she replied. She sighed over the worn furniture and bare walls. With a little paint and love, this house had great possibilities. It wasn't all that old, and it was built sturdily. She pursed her lips, studying it. The room was big, but it could be com­fortable, and there was a huge rock fire­place that would be a showpiece with a little cleaning up. The windows were long and el­egant, and the floor would have a beauty all its own if it were varnished.

  "You won't find any sidewinders under the rug, if that's what you're looking for," Carson taunted from the doorway.

  She turned and had to force herself to look away again. He'd obviously just come from a shower. He was fully dressed except for the shirt he was shrugging into, a blue printed one that matched his eyes. She got a wildly exciting glimpse of broad, tanned muscles and a thick pelt of hair running down past the buckled belt around his lean hips, and her heart started beating unex­pectedly hard. She'd seen Carson without a shirt before, for God's sake, she told her­self, why was it affecting her this way all of a sudden?

  "You look elegant even in jeans," he murmured drily. "Couldn't you find any­thing worn?"

  "This is worn." She pouted, turning to find him closer than she'd expected. She took a slow breath and inhaled the scent of a men's cologne that was one of her partic­ular favorites. ''You smell good," she blurted out.

  "Do I?" He laughed softly.

  His hands had stilled on the top buttons of the shirt and he looked down at her in a way that threatened and excited all at the same time. His chiseled mouth was smiling in a faint, sexy way and his blue eyes narrowed as they studied her.

  "Why are you so nervous?" he asked with his head lifted, so that he was looking down his crooked nose at her. "You've been alone with me before.''

  "You were always dressed before," she said without meaning to.

  "Is that it?" He watched her face and de­liberately flicked open the buttons he'd fas­tened. "Does this bother you?" he asked in a deep, lazy tone, moving the shirt aside to let the hair-roughened expanse of his chest show.

  Her breath caught and she didn't under­stand why. Her lips went dry, but she barely noticed.

  He lifted her hands with slow, easy move­ments, and brought her fingers to his cool skin, letting her feel the hard muscles.

  "No flab," she laughed unsteadily, trying to keep things light between them, but her legs felt shaky.

  "Not a bit," he agreed. "I work too hard for that." He pressed her fingers hard against him and moved them in a slow, sen­suous pattern down the center of his chest and back up again. "I don't suppose you brought a fishing pole?"

  "I don't...own one," she replied. In­credible, that they were conducting an im­personal conversation while what they were doing was growing quickly more intimate.

  His chest rose and fell unevenly. He pressed her palms flat against his hardened nipples and she could hear his heartbeat, ac­tually hear it. He moved, so that he was closer than ever, and his breath stirred the hair at her temples.

  She couldn't look up, because she wanted his mouth desperately, and she knew he'd see it. She didn't understand her own wild hungers or his unexpected reaction to her near­ness and her touch. She didn't understand anything.

  The room seemed dark and private. There was no sound in it, except for his breathing and the loud tick of the mantel clock.

  He drew his open mouth tenderly across her forehead, his breath hot, his chest shud­dering with the harshness of his breathing. Impatiently, he took her hands in his and guided them down the hard muscles of his chest and around to his lean hips. She pro­tested, a stiff little gesture.

  "Don't fight me," he whispered unstead­ily, moving her hands down the sides of his legs and back up to his hips. "There's noth­ing to be afraid of."

  But there was! Her own reaction to him was terrifying. She felt his legs touch hers and she made an odd sound in her throat, one that he heard.

  His head moved nearer. Her eyes closed and she felt his warm breath at her fore­head, her nose, the open softness of her mouth. Unaware of her response, she opened her mouth to invite his, tilted her head back to give him full access. And waited, breathing in his scent as his mouth came closer. Would it be gentle this time, she wondered, or would he hurt... ?

  "Mr. Wayne!" The loud call was like a gunshot. Carson's head jerked up. He looked dazed, and his eyes were a dark blue, haunted, hungry as they met hers for just an instant before he moved away.

  "What is it, Jake?" he asked curtly, but­toning his shirt as he went out onto the po
rch.

  Mandelyn heard the voices with a sense of unreality. She was still trembling, and her mouth was hungry for the kiss she hadn't gotten. Her misty eyes searched for Carson and found him standing outside the door. She looked at him with open wonder, letting her rapt eyes wander down the superb mas­culinity of his back and hips and legs. She remembered the feel of his skin, the smell of him. Her breasts ached and as she crossed her arms, she felt the nipples' hardness.

  She licked her dry lips and ground her teeth together as she tried to get her rebel­lious body back under control. It wanted him. God, it wanted him, all of him, skin against skin, mouth against hungry mouth. She almost moaned aloud at the force of that wanting, at the urgency she'd never felt be­fore. Her sweet memories of the man in her past had faded completely away during that passionate onslaught, had been replaced with a different emotion. With a wildness that she'd never known, a violent need.

  How in the world could she face Carson now, after giving herself away so com­pletely? He was still a man, he wouldn't hesitate to take anything that was offered, despite their long friendship. If she acted like a temptress, what could she expect? He was human.

  She cleared her throat as he came back into the room. If only she could find an ex­cuse to go home.

  "I'll find you a pole," he said good-humoredly, grinning at her. "Got a hat?"

  "No."

  "Here." He reached into the closet and tossed her a straw one that just fit. "It be­longed to me, years back. Well, let's go."

  He herded her out the door before she had a chance to protest, and minutes later they went bumping over his pasture in the pickup truck toward the stream where the swim­ming and fishing hole spread out invitingly past some cottonwood trees.

  "We used to swim here," he told her as they sat on upside-down minnow buckets in the cool shade. "Some of the boys still do, but it's a good fishing spot, nevertheless. Here."

  He handed her the bait can and she stared at it distastefully.

  "Please?" she asked softly, looking up at him.

  His eyes remained on hers for a minute before he turned them back to the bait can. "I'll show you how."