Diana Palmer Christmas Collection: The Rancher / Christmas Cowboy / A Man of Means / True Blue / Carrera's Bride / Will of Steel / Winter Roses

He brushed a stray hair from her eyebrow with a lean, sure hand. “I want you to know something,” he said quietly. “What happened that night… I wouldn’t have forced you. Things got a little out of hand, and I said some things, a lot of things, that I regret. I guess you realize now that I had a different picture of you than the one that was real. But even so, I wouldn’t have harmed you.”

“I think I knew that,” she said. “But thank you for telling me.”

His hand lay alongside her soft cheek and his metallic eyes went dark and sad. “I mourned you,” he said huskily. “Nothing was the same after you’d gone.”

She lowered her eyes to his throat. “I didn’t have much fun in New York at first, either.”

“Modeling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be?”

She hesitated. Then she shook her head. “I did better as a stenographer.”

“And you’ll do even better as a financial expert, right here,” he told her. He smiled, tilting up her chin. “Are you going to take the job I’ve offered you?”

“Yes,” she said at once. Her gaze drew slowly over his face. “Are your brothers like you?”

“Wait and see.”

“That sounds ominous.”

He chuckled, moving slowly away from her to retrieve his cane from the chair. “They’re no worse, at least.”

“Are they as outspoken as you?”

“Definitely.” He saw her apprehension. “Think of the positive side. At least you’ll always know exactly where you stand with us.”

“That must be a plus.”

“Around here, it is. We’re hard cases. We don’t make friends easily.”

“And you don’t marry. I remember.”

His face went hard. “You have plenty of reason to remember that I said that. But I’m eight years older, and a lot wiser. I don’t have such concrete ideas anymore.”

“You mean, you’re not still a confirmed bachelor?” She laughed nervously. “They say you’re taken with the gay divorcée, just the same.”

“How did you hear about her?” he asked curtly.

His level, challenging gaze made her uneasy. “People talk,” she said.

“Well, the gay divorcée,” he emphasized, his expression becoming even more remote, “is a special case. And we’re not a couple. Despite what you may have heard. We’re friends.”

She turned away. “That’s no concern of mine. I’ll do your bookkeeping on those household accounts, and thank you for the work. But I have no interest in your private life.”

He didn’t return the compliment. He reached for his hat and perched it on his black hair. There were threads of gray at his temples now, and new lines in his dark, lean face.

“I’m sorry about your accident,” she said abruptly, watching him lean heavily on the cane.

“I’ll get by,” he said. “My leg is stiff, but I’m not crippled. It hurts right now because I took a toss off a horse, and I need the cane. As a rule, I walk well enough without one.”

“I remember the way you used to ride,” she recalled. “I thought I’d never seen anything in my life as beautiful as you astride a horse at a fast gallop.”

His posture went even more rigid. “You never said so.”

She smiled. “You intimidated me. I was afraid of you. And not only because you wanted me.” She averted her eyes. “I wanted you, too. But I hadn’t been raised to believe in a promiscuous life-style. Which,” she added, looking up at his shocked face, “was all you were offering me. You said so.”

“God help me, I never knew that your father was a minister and your mother a missionary,” he said heavily. “Not until it was far too late to do me any good. I expected that all young women were free with their favors in this age of no-consequences intimacy.”

“It wouldn’t be of no consequence to me,” she said firmly. “I was never one to go with the crowd. I’m still not.”

“Yes, I know,” he murmured dryly, giving her a long, meaningful glance. “It’s obvious.”

“And it’s none of your business.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He tilted his hat over his eyes. “I haven’t changed completely, you know. I still go after the things I want, even if I don’t go as fast as I used to.”

“I expect you do,” she said. “Does the divorcée know?”

“Know what? That I’m persistent? Sure she does.”

“Good for her.”

“She’s a beauty,” he added, propping on his stick. “Of an age to be sophisticated and good fun.”

Her heart hurt. “I’m sure you enjoy her company.”

“I enjoy yours as much,” he replied surprisingly. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Don’t you like cookies?” she asked, noting that he hadn’t touched them.

“No,” he said. “I don’t care for sweets at all.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “We never had them at home. Our mother wasn’t the homey sort.”

“What was she like?” she had to ask.

“She couldn’t cook, hated housework and spouted contempt for any woman who could sew and knit and crochet,” he replied.

She felt cold. “And your father?”

“He was a good man, but he couldn’t cope with us alone.” His eyes grew dark. “When she took off and deserted him, part of him died. She’d just come back, out of money and all alone, from her latest lover. They were talking about a reconciliation when the flood took the house where she was living right out from under them.” His face changed, hardened. He leaned heavily on the cane. “Simon and Cag and I were grown by then. We took care of the other two.”

“No wonder you don’t like women,” she murmured quietly.

He gave her a long, level look and then dropped his gaze. She missed the calculation in his tone when he added, “Marriage is old-fashioned, anyway. I have a dog, a good horse and a houseful of modern appliances. I even have a housekeeper who can cook. A wife would be redundant.”

“Well, I never,” she exclaimed, breathless.