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

“Do they really hate women?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“I’ll bet they’re sought after,” she mentioned, “especially when people get a good look at this ranch.”

“The ranch is only a part of the properties we own,” he replied. “Our people are fourth-generation Texans, and we inherited thousands of acres of land and five ranches. They were almost bankrupt when the old man died, though,” he mused. “He didn’t really have a head for figures. Broke Grandad’s heart. He saw the end of his empire. But we pulled it out of the fire.”

“So I see,” she agreed.

“The only problem is, none of us are married. So if we don’t have descendants, who’s going to keep the empire going?”

She thought of the most terrible answer to that question, and then got the giggles.

He raised an eyebrow.

She put a hand over her mouth until she got herself back under control. “Sorry. I was only thinking of that movie about the man who got pregnant…!”

He gave her a level look, unsmiling.

She cleared her throat. “Where are the accounts?”

He hesitated for a minute, and then opened the desk drawer and took out a set of ledgers, placing them on the spotless cherry wood desk.

“This is beautiful,” she remarked, stroking the silky, high-polished surface.

“It was our grandfather’s,” he told her. “We didn’t want to change things around too much. The old gentleman was fond of the office just the way it is.”

She looked around, puzzled by the plain wood paneling. There were no deer heads or weapons anywhere. She said so.

“He didn’t like trophies,” he told her. “Neither do we. If we hunt, we use every part of the deer, but we don’t have the heads mounted. It doesn’t seem quite sporting.”

She turned as she pulled out the desk chair, and looked at him with open curiosity.

“None of your brothers are like I pictured them.”

“In what way?”

She smiled. “You’re very handsome,” she said, averting her eyes when his began to glitter. “They aren’t. And they all have very dark eyes. Yours are gray, like mine.”

“They favor our mother,” he said. “I favor him.” He nodded toward the one portrait, on the wall behind the desk. It looked early twentieth century and featured a man very like Corrigan, except with silver hair.

“So that’s what you’ll look like,” she remarked absently.

“Eventually. Not for a few years, I hope.”

She glanced at him, because he’d come to stand beside her. “You’re going gray, just at the temples.”

He looked down into her soft face. His eyes narrowed as he searched every inch of her above the neck. “Gray won’t show in that beautiful mop on your head,” he said quietly. “It’ll blend in and make it even prettier.”

The comment was softly spoken, and so poetic that it embarrassed her. She smiled self-consciously and her gaze fell to his shirt. It was open at the collar, because it was warm in the house. Thick black hair peered over the button, and unwanted memories of that last night they’d been together came flooding back. He’d taken his shirt off, to give her hands total access to his broad, hair-roughened chest. He liked her lips on it…

She cleared her throat and looked away, her color high. “I’d better get to work.”

His lean hand caught her arm, very gently, and he pulled her back around. His free hand went to the snaps that held the shirt together. He looked into her startled eyes and slowly, one by one, he flicked the snaps apart.

“What…are you…doing?” she faltered. She couldn’t breathe. He was weaving spells around her. She felt weak-kneed already, and the sight of that broad chest completely bare drew a faint gasp from her lips.

He had her by the elbows. He drew her to him, so that her lips were on a level with his collarbone. She could hear his heartbeat, actually hear it.

“It was like this,” he said in a raw, ragged tone. “But I had your blouse off, your breasts bare. I drew you to me, like this,” he whispered unsteadily, drawing her against the length of him, “and I bent, and took your open mouth under my own…like this…”

It was happening all over again. She was eight years older, but apparently not one day less vulnerable. He put her cold hands into the thick hair on his chest and moved them while his hard mouth took slow, sweet possession of her lips.

He nudged her lips apart and hesitated for just a second, long enough to look into her eyes and see the submission and faint hunger in them. There was just the hint of a smile on his lips before he parted them against her soft mouth.

Chapter Four (#ulink_87b56a8e-a5c2-50f8-b7e6-23b2db103b2e)

She had no pride at all, she decided in the hectic seconds that followed the first touch of his hard mouth. She was a total washout as a liberated woman.

His hands had gone to her waist and then moved up to her rib cage, to the soft underside of her breasts. He stroked just under them until she shivered and moaned, and then his hands lifted and took possession; blatant possession.

He felt her mouth open. His own answered it while he touched her, searched over her breasts and found the hard nipples that pushed against his palms.

His mouth grew rougher. She felt his hands move around her, felt the catch give. Her blouse was pushed up with a shivering urgency, and seconds later, her bare breasts were buried in the thick hair that covered his chest and abdomen.

She cried out, dragging her mouth from his.

He looked into her eyes, but He wouldn’t let her go. His hard face was expressionless. Only his eyes were alive, glittering like gray fires. He deliberately moved her from side to side and watched her face as he did it, enjoying, with a completely masculine delight, the pleasure she couldn’t hide.

“Your nipples are like rocks against me.” He bit off the words, holding her even closer. “I took your breasts inside my mouth the night we made love, and you arched up right off the bed to give them to me. Do you remember what you did next?”

She couldn’t speak. She looked at him with mingled desire and fear.

“You slid your hands inside my jeans,” he whispered roughly. “And you touched me. That’s when I lost control.”

Her moan was one of shame, not pleasure. She found his chest with her cheek and pressed close to him, shivering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry…!”

His mouth found her eyes and kissed them shut. “Don’t,” he whispered roughly. “I’m not saying it to shame you. I only want you to remember why it ended the way it did. You were grass green and I didn’t know it. I encouraged you to be uninhibited, but I’d never have done it if I’d known what an innocent you were.” His mouth slid over her forehead with breathless tenderness while his hands slid to her lower back and pulled her even closer. “I was going to take you,” he whispered. His hands contracted and his body went rigid with a surge of arousal that she could feel. His legs trembled. “I still want to, God help me,” he breathed at her temple. “I’ve never had the sort of arousal I feel with you. I don’t even have to undress you first.” His hands began to tremble as he moved her sensually against his hips. His mouth slid down to hers and softly covered it, lifting and touching and probing until she shivered again with pleasure.

“I thought you knew,” she whimpered.

“I didn’t.” his hands moved to the very base of her spine and lifted Her gently into the hard thrust of his body. He caught his breath at the wave of pleasure that washed over him immediately. “Dorie,” he breathed.

She couldn’t think at all. When he took one of her hands and pressed it to his lower body, she didn’t even have the will to protest. Her hand opened and she let him move it gently against him, on fire with the need to touch him.

“Eight years,” she said shakily.

“And we’re still starving for each other,” he whispered at her mouth. His hand became insistent. “Harder,” he said and his breath caught.