Paper Husband

Paper Husband
Diana Palmer

Where is it written that a rancher’s daughter has to marry a long, tall Texan—or lose the ranch that’s her home?In Dana Mobry’s father’s will! And Dana has just discovered that her partner in this marriage of convenience is none other than the sexiest cowboy in Texas—Hank Grant!

About Diana Palmer

DIANA PALMER first romance novel was for Silhouette Books in 1982. She is deemed to be one of the top ten romance writers in the country and is the winner of five national Waldenbooks Romance Bestseller awards and two national B. Dalton Books Bestseller awards. This is her first collaboration with Harlequin Books, writing about the American West, which she loves so well. Diana Palmer lives in Georgia, with her husband and son.

Paper Husband

Diana Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Where is it written that a rancher’s daughter has to marry a long, tall Texan—or lose the ranch? In her father’s will—and Dana Mobry’s just discovered that her partner in this marriage of convenience is none other than the sexiest cowboy in Texas, Hank Grant. He insists they keep the marriage in name only, but surrendering to temptation could transform a paper husband into the love of a lifetime!

Dear Reader,

I can’t possibly put into words what a privilege it is for me to share a book with my heroine, Margaret Way. Her Red Cliffs of Malpara was the very first Harlequin romance novel I ever read, and is the book that inspired me to write romance novels in the first place. I can’t think of anyone in the industry whom I admire more, or who has given me more pleasure with her wonderful books.

This project is my first for Harlequin and I have enjoyed it more than I can tell you. I’ve spent a number of years kicking around sites in the American West, places like Tombstone, Arizona, and San Antonio and Fort Worth in Texas. I’ve been on ranches. I’ve seen how hard the cowboys work. I’ve eaten beef and beans, and I’ve seen ranches the size of eastern cities in Montana and Wyoming. I’ve loved the western states ever since I was a small girl and read Zane Grey’s novels. I never dreamed that one day I, too, would have the privilege of writing books about the West and actually seeing them in print.

I hope that you enjoy the two stories contained in this volume. I know you are going to love Margaret’s, because she’s never written a book that wasn’t wonderful. But I hope you like mine, too.

Thank you all for your loyalty over the long years. I have the greatest readers in the world. And I love every one of you.

CHAPTER ONE

THE SUMMER SUN was rising. Judging by its place in the sky, Dana Mobry figured that it was about eleven o’clock in the morning. That meant she’d been in her present predicament for over two hours, and the day was growing hotter.

She sighed with resigned misery as she glanced at her elevated right leg where her jeans were hopelessly tangled in two loose strands of barbed wire. Her booted foot was enmeshed in the strands of barbed wire that made up the fence, and her left leg was wrapped in it because she’d twisted when she fell. She’d been trying to mend the barbed-wire fence to keep cattle from getting out. She was using her father’s tools to do it, but sadly, she didn’t have his strength. At times like this, she missed him unbearably, and it was only a week since his funeral.

She tugged at the neck of her short-sleeved cotton shirt and brushed strands of her damp blond hair back into its neat French braid. Not so neat now, she thought, disheveled and unkempt from the fall that had landed her in this mess. Nearby, oblivious to her mistress’s dilemma, her chestnut mare, Bess, grazed. Overhead, a hawk made graceful patterns against the cloudless sky. Far away could be heard the sound of traffic on the distant highway that led around Jacobsville to the small Texas ranch where Dana was tangled in the fence wire.

Nobody knew where she was. She lived alone in the little ramshackle house that she’d shared with her father. They’d lost everything after her mother deserted them seven years ago. After that terrible blow, her father, who was raised on a ranch, decided to come back and settle on the old family homeplace. There were no other relatives unless you counted a cousin in Montana.

Dana’s father had stocked this place with a small herd of beef cattle and raised a truck garden. It was a meager living, compared to the mansion near Dallas that her mother’s wealth had maintained. When Carla Mobry had unexpectedly divorced her husband, he’d had to find a way of making a living for himself, quickly. Dana had chosen to go with him to his boyhood home in Jacobsville, rather than endure her mother’s indifferent presence. Now her father was dead and she had no one.

She’d loved her father, and he’d loved her. They’d been happy together, even without a huge income. But the strain of hard physical labor on a heart that she had not even known was bad had been too much. He’d had a heart attack a few days ago, and died in his sleep. Dana had found him the next morning when she went in to his room to call him to breakfast.

Hank had come immediately at Dana’s frantic phone call. It didn’t occur to her that she should have called the ambulance first instead of their nearest, and very antisocial, neighbor. It was just that Hank was so capable. He always knew what to do. That day he had, too. After a quick look at her father, he’d phoned an ambulance and herded Dana out of the room. Later he’d said that he knew immediately that it was hours too late to save her father. He’d done a stint overseas in the military, where he’d seen death too often to mistake it.

Most people avoided Hayden Grant as much as possible. He owned the feed and mill store locally, and he ran cattle on his huge tracts of land around Jacobsville. He’d found oil on the same land, so lack of money wasn’t one of his problems. But a short temper, a legendary dislike of women and a reputation for outspokenness made him unpopular in most places.

He liked Dana, though. That had been fascinating from the very beginning, because he was a misogynist and made no secret of the fact. Perhaps he considered her safe because of the age difference. Hank was thirty-six and Dana was barely twenty-two. She was slender and of medium height, with dark blond hair and a plain little face made interesting by the huge dark blue eyes that dominated it. She had a firm, rounded chin and a straight nose and a perfect bow of a mouth that was a natural light pink, without makeup. She wasn’t pretty, but her figure was exquisite, even in blue jeans and a faded checked cotton shirt with the two buttons missing, torn off when she’d fallen. She grimaced. She hadn’t taken time to search for a bra in the clean wash this morning because she’d been in a hurry to fix the fence before her only bull got out into the road. She looked like a juvenile stripper, with the firm, creamy curves of her breasts very noticeable where the buttons were missing.

She shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced around. There was nothing for miles but Texas and more Texas. She should have been paying better attention to what she was doing, but her father’s death had devastated her. She’d cried for three days, especially after the family attorney had told her about that humiliating clause in the will he’d left. She couldn’t bear the shame of divulging it to Hank. But how could she avoid it, when it concerned him as much as it concerned her? Papa, she thought miserably, how could you do this to me? Couldn’t you have spared me a little pride!

She wiped stray tears away. Crying wouldn’t help. Her father was dead and the will would have to be dealt with.

A sound caught her attention. In the stillness of the field, it was very loud. There was a rhythm to it. After a minute, she knew why it sounded familiar. It was the gait of a thoroughbred stallion. And she knew exactly to whom that horse belonged.

Sure enough, a minute later a tall rider came into view. With his broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his lean, dark face and the elegant way he rode, Hank Grant was pretty easy to spot from a distance. If he hadn’t been so noticeable, the horse, Cappy, was. Cappy was a palomino with impeccable bloodlines, and he brought handsome fees at stud. He was remarkably gentle for an ungelded horse, although he could become nervous at times. Still, he wouldn’t allow anyone except Hank on his back.

As Hank reined in beside her prone body, she could see the amused indulgence in his face before she heard it in his deep voice.

“Again?” he asked with resignation, obviously recalling the other times he’d had to rescue her.

“The fence was down,” she said belligerently, blowing a strand of blond hair out of her mouth. “And that stupid fence tool needs hands like a wrestler’s to work it!”

“Sure it does, honey,” he drawled, crossing his forearms over the pommel. “Fences don’t know beans about the women’s liberation movement.”

“Don’t you start that again,” she muttered.

His mouth tugged up. “Aren’t you in a peachy position to be throwing out challenges?” he murmured dryly, and his dark eyes saw far too much as they swept over her body. For just an instant, something flashed in them when they came to rest briefly on the revealed curves of her breasts.

She moved uncomfortably. “Come on, Hank, get me loose,” she pleaded, wriggling. “I’ve been stuck here since nine o’clock and I’m dying for something to drink. It’s so hot.”

“Okay, kid.” He swung out of the saddle and threw Cappy’s reins over his head, leaving him to graze nearby. He squatted by her trapped legs. His worn jeans pulled tight against the long, powerful muscles of his legs and she had to grit her teeth against the pleasure it gave her just to look at him. Hank was handsome. He had that sort of masculine beauty about him that made even older women sigh when they saw him. He had a rider’s lean and graceful look, and a face that an advertising agency would have loved. But he was utterly unaware of his own attractions. His wife had run out on him ten years before, and he’d never wanted to marry anyone else since the divorce. It was well-known in the community that Hank had no use for a woman except in one way. He was discreet and tight-lipped about his liaisons, and only Dana seemed to know that he had them. He was remarkably outspoken with her. In fact, he talked to her about private things that he shared with nobody else.

He was surveying the damage, his lips pursed thoughtfully, before he began to try to untangle her from the barbed wire with gloved hands. Hank was methodical in everything he did, single-minded and deliberate. He never acted rashly. It was another trait that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Nope, that won’t do,” he murmured and reached into his pocket. “I’m going to have to cut this denim to get you loose, honey. I’m sorry. I’ll replace the jeans.”

She blushed. “I’m not destitute yet!”

He looked down into her dark blue eyes and saw the color in her cheeks. “You’re so proud, Dana. You’d never ask for help, not if it meant you starved to death.” He flipped open his pocketknife. “I guess that’s why we get along so well. We’re alike in a lot of ways.”

“You’re taller than I am, and you have black hair. Mine’s blond,” she said pointedly.

He grinned, as she knew he would. He didn’t smile much, especially around other people. She loved the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled.

“I wasn’t talking about physical differences,” he explained unnecessarily. He cut the denim loose from the wire. It was a good thing he was wearing gloves, because the barbed-wire was sharp and treacherous. “Why don’t you use electrified fence like modern ranchers?”

“Because I can’t afford it, Hank,” she said simply.

He grimaced. He freed the last strand and pulled her into a sitting position, which was unexpectedly intimate. Her blouse fell open when she leaned forward and, like any male, he filled his eyes with the sight of her firm, creamy breasts, their tips hard and mauve against the soft pink mounds. He caught his breath audibly.

Embarrassed, she grasped the edges of her shirt and pulled them together, flushing. She couldn’t meet his eyes. But she was aware of his intent stare, of the smell of leather and faint cologne that clung to his skin, of the clean smell of his long-sleeve chambray shirt. Her eyes fell to the opening at his throat, where thick black hair was visible. She’d never seen Hank without his shirt. She’d always wanted to.

His lean hand smoothed against her cheek and his thumb pressed her rounded chin up. His eyes searched her shy ones. “And that’s what I like best about you,” he said huskily. “You don’t play. Every move you make is honest.” He held her gaze. “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I’d turned my eyes away. Your breasts are beautiful, like pink marble with hard little tips that make me feel very masculine. You shouldn’t be ashamed of a natural reaction like that.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “Natural … reaction?” she faltered, wide-eyed.

He frowned. “Don’t you understand?”

She didn’t. Her life had been a remarkably sheltered one. She’d first discovered her feelings for Hank when she was just seventeen, and she’d never looked at anyone else. She’d only dated two boys. Both of them had been shy and a little nervous with her, and when one of them had kissed her, she’d found it distasteful.

She did watch movies, some of which were very explicit. But they didn’t explain what happened to people physically, they just showed it.