Donavan. Diana Palmer

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      “That’s right, you don’t need to ask what I drove here in,” she muttered self-consciously. “And yes, it’s mine.”

      He chuckled. “Bristling already, and we’ve only just met,” he murmured as he pulled out into the road. “What do you do when you aren’t trying to pick up strange men in bars?”

      She glared at him. “I study piano, paint a little and generally try to stay sane through endless dinner parties and morning coffees.”

      He whistled through his teeth. “Some life.”

      She turned in the seat, liking the strength of his profile. “What do you do?”

      “Chase cattle, mostly. Figure percentages, decide which cattle to cull, hire and fire cowboys, go to conferences, make financial decisions.” He glanced at her. “Occasionally I sit on the board of directors of two corporations.”

      She frowned slightly. “I thought you said you were a foreman.”

      “There’s a little more to it than that,” he said comfortably. “You don’t need to know the rest. Where do you want to go?”

      She had to readjust her thinking from the abrupt statement. She glanced out the dark window at the flat south Texas landscape. “Well…I don’t know. I just don’t want to go home.”

      “They’re having a fiesta down in San Moreno,” he said with an amused glance. “Ever been to one?”

      “No!” Her eyes brightened. “Could we?”

      “I don’t see why not. There isn’t much to do except dance, though, and drink beer. Do you dance?”

      “Oh, yes. Do you?”

      He chuckled. “I can when forced into it. But you may have trouble with the beer part.”

      “I learned to like caviar,” she said. “Maybe I can learn to like beer.”

      He didn’t comment. He turned on the radio and country-western music filled the cab. She leaned her head back on the seat and smiled as she closed her eyes. Incredible, she thought, how much she trusted this man when she’d only just met him. She felt as though she’d known him for years.

      The feeling continued when they got to the small, dusty town of San Moreno. A band of mariachis was playing loud, lively Mexican music while people danced in the roped-off main square. Vendors sold everything from beer to tequila and chimichangas and tacos. The music was loud, the beer was hot, but nobody seemed to mind. Most of the people were Mexican-American, although Fay noticed a few cowboys among the celebrants.

      “What are we celebrating?” Fay asked breathlessly as Donavan swung her around and around to the quick beat of the music.

      “Who cares?” He chuckled.

      She shook her head. In all her life, she couldn’t remember being so happy or feeling so carefree. If she died tomorrow, it would be worth it, because she had tonight to remember. So she drank warm beer that tasted better with each sip, and she danced in Donavan’s lean, strong arms, and rested against his muscular chest and breathed in the scent of him until she was more drunk on the man than the liquor.

      Finally the frantic pace died down and there was a slow two-step. She melted into Donavan, sliding her arms around him with the kind of familiarity that usually came from weeks of togetherness. She seemed to fit against him, like a soft glove. He smelled of tobacco and beer and the whole outdoors, and the feel of his body so close to hers was delightfully exciting. His arms enfolded her, both of them wrapped close around her, and for a few minutes there was nobody else in the world. She heard the music as if through a fog of pure pleasure, her body reacting to the closeness of his in a way it had never reacted before. She felt a tension that was disturbing, and a kind of throbbing ache in her lower body that she’d never experienced. Being close to him was becoming intolerable. She caught her breath and pulled away a little, raising eyes full of curious apprehension to his.

      He searched her face quietly, aware of her fear and equally aware of the cause of it. He smiled gently. “It’s all right,” he said quietly.

      She frowned. “I…I don’t quite understand what’s wrong with me,” she whispered. “Maybe the beer…”

      “There’s no need to pretend. Not with me.” He framed her face in his lean hands and bent, pressing a tender kiss against her forehead. “We’d better go.”

      “Must we?” she sighed.

      He nodded. “It’s late.” He caught her hand in his and tugged her along to the truck. He was feeling something of the same reckless excitement she was, except that he was older and more adept at controlling it. He knew that she’d wanted him while they were dancing, but things were getting ahead of him. He didn’t need a rich society girl in his life. God knew, one had been the ruin of his family. People around Jacobsville, Texas, still remembered how his father had gone pell-mell after a local debutante without any scruples about how he forced her to marry him, right on the heels of his wife’s funeral, too. Donavan had turned bitter trying to live down the family scandal. Miss High Society here would find it out eventually. Better not to start something he couldn’t finish, even if she did cause an inconvenient ache in his body. No doubt she’d had half a dozen men, but she might be addictive—and he couldn’t risk finding out she was.

      She was pleasantly relaxed when they got back to the deserted bar where she’d left her Mercedes. The spell had worn off a little, and her head had cleared. But with that return to reality came the unpleasantness of having to go home and face the music. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going, and they were going to be angry. Really angry.

      “Thank you,” she said simply, turning to Donavan after she unlocked her car. “It was a magical night.”

      “For me, too.” He opened the door for her. “Stay out of my part of town, debutante,” he said gently. “You don’t belong here.”

      Her green eyes searched his gray ones. “I hate my life,” she said.

      “Change it,” he replied. “You can if you want to.”

      “I’m not used to fighting.”

      “Get used to it. Life doesn’t give, it takes. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.”

      “So they say.” She toyed with her car keys. “But in my world, the fighting gets dirty.”

      “It does in mine, too. That never stopped me. Don’t let it stop you.”

      She lowered her eyes to the hard chest that had pillowed her head while they danced. “I won’t forget you.”

      “Don’t get any ideas,” he murmured dryly, flicking a long strand of hair away from her face. “I’m not looking for complications or ties. Not ever. Your world and mine wouldn’t mix. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

      “You just told me to,” she pointed out, lifting her face to his.

      “Not in my direction,” he emphasized. He smiled at her. The action made him look younger, less formidable. “Go home.”

      She СКАЧАТЬ