Heartless. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ window trying to force her to open the door. Before he could break in, Jason skidded to a stop in front of the car and got out. Even now, so many years later, Gracie could still see the sudden fear on the boy’s face when he saw the furious tall man approaching him. Jason was elegant, and usually even-tempered, but he could move like a striking cobra when he was angry. The boy had been tall, too, and muscular—a football star. But he hadn’t lasted ten seconds with Jason. Those big fists had put him down in a heartbeat. The confrontation had made Gracie sick. Jason had saved her, though. And it wasn’t the only time he’d stepped between Gracie and trouble. There was a saying on the Rocking Spur ranch, that any cowboy who wanted a quick trip to the emergency room only had to say something unsavory about or to Gracie in front of Jason.

      After he’d rescued her, that long-ago night, he’d driven her home in a tense silence. But when they got home and he realized how frightened she was, even of him, he calmed down at once and became her affectionate stepbrother.

      Now, he was as familiar to her as the flower garden she was working in. But there was still that distance between them. Especially since he’d been spending even less time at the San Antonio mansion. He had a way of looking at her lately that was disturbing. He went broody sometimes, too, as if his life was disappointing him.

      While she was thinking, she nipped the last overlapping limb of a rosebush away from the fall chrysanthemums, which were just starting to branch out. She smoothed over them with her hand, smiling, considering how beautiful they would be in a few months, all gold and bright as the cold weather moved in. Her bulbs would need to be dug and separated, but that could wait for cooler weather. She’d planted some new bulbs at the ranch, too, last autumn, but Jason’s big German shepherd had dug them up and eaten them. Fuming mad, she’d told Jason that the animal was a squirrel. No self-respecting dog would eat a helpless bulb. He’d almost bent over double laughing at her outrage. But he’d replaced the bulbs and even reluctantly loaned her one of his cowboys to help her replant them; one of his oldest and ugliest cowboys, at that. He went to great lengths to put distance between her and his ranch foreman, Grange.

      “What are you thinking?” he asked.

      She laughed self-consciously. “About Baker eating my bulbs last fall.”

      He grinned. “He’s developed a taste for them. I had to put a fence around your flower bed.”

      “A fence?” she wailed.

      “A white picket fence,” he assured her. “Something aesthetic.”

      She relaxed. “You’re nice.”

      He lifted an eyebrow. “I am?”

      She put down the trowel and stood up, brushing at the dirt on her sweatshirt. It only smeared. “Darn,” she muttered. “It will never come out.”

      “Harcourt can get anything out. She has chemicals hidden in the pantry.”

      She glanced at him and laughed delightedly. “Yes, but Dilly does the laundry.”

      “Dilly has chemicals, too.”

      She looked down at her feet. Her sneakers were caked in mud. “I’ll never get through the house in these,” she moaned. She slipped out of them, standing in her stained socks. “Oh, darn!”

      “I need to teach you how to cuss,” he mused.

      “You do it well enough for both of us, and in two languages,” she pointed out. His Spanish was elegant and fluent.

      He chuckled. “So I do.”

      “The ground is cold,” she said absently.

      He stood, moved close and suddenly swung her up into his powerful arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

      She gasped at the strength in those powerful arms and clung to his neck, fearful of being dropped. She’d never liked being carried, although it was agonizingly stimulating when Jason did it. She felt shaky all over, being so close to him. This time, her body betrayed its fascination with him. She felt the whisper of his coffee-scented breath on her face as he shifted her. He smelled of faint, expensive cologne and soap, and muscles rippled in his chest. The ache that had begun to consume her became almost painful. Her mind filled with unfamiliar, dangerous thoughts. She should be still, she should pull back. She was thinking it even as she suddenly nestled closer to his warm strength and buried her face in his throat. She thought he shuddered, but that was doubtful. She’d never known a man in better control of himself.

      “I know, you don’t like being picked up,” he said in a husky tone. He laughed softly. “But you can’t walk on the white carpet shoeless with dirty socks, pet,” he added. He curled her even closer, so that her small, firm breasts were crushed against warm, hard muscle. “Just lie still and think of England.”

      She frowned as he carried her up the steps and into the house, shifting her weight for an instant to open the front door. He kicked it shut behind them and started for the stairs that led to the second floor of the huge mansion.

      “England?” she asked, diverted.

      He carried her up the staircase, smiling. “Think about it.”

      “England.” She’d never been to England. Had she?

      He stopped at the door to her room. His black eyes pierced into hers. He was much too close. She could feel his clean breath on her face. The feel of his arms under her, his warm strength so close to her, made her feel exhilarated and breathless. She didn’t want to move. She wanted him to hold her even closer.

      “Those old movies, where women sacrifice themselves for the good of their country?” he prompted, still smiling. But his eyes were taunting, wise, hinting at things that Gracie knew nothing about.

      “What old movies?” she asked absently. Her mind was on how fast her heart was beating.

      “Never mind,” he said heavily. He put her down abruptly, looking frustrated.

      “I don’t watch old movies, Jason,” she said, trying to placate him. “We don’t have any.”

      “I’ll buy some old ones,” he muttered. “Maybe some documentary ones, too.”

      “Documentaries? About what?” she asked blankly.

      He started to speak, thought better of it and made a thin line of his lips. “Never mind. Don’t be too long.”

      “I won’t.” She hesitated. “What shall I wear?” she added, wanting to soothe him because he liked it when she asked for his advice, and he seemed angry with her for some reason.

      He paused. His eyes swept down her body with a strange slowness. “Wear the gold gown I brought you from Paris,” he said softly. “It suits you.”

      “Isn’t it too dressy for a cocktail party?” she wondered.

      He moved back to her. He was so tall, she thought, that her head only came up to his nose. He looked down into her puzzled eyes. “No,” he replied. He touched her damaged coiffure. “And let your hair down for once. Wear it long. For me.”

      He made her feel warm and jittery. That was new. His voice was deep and slow, as soft as velvet. Her lips parted in anticipation as she stared into his eyes.

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