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known exactly what he was doing when he'd made that pass at her in the backyard. If it hadn't been for
her unfortunate marriage, it might have been difficult not to respond to his ardor. His mouth had been
hard and warm and very, very expert, and something deep inside her had reacted wildly to the taste of
him, although she'd kept him from knowing it.
The sound of the front door opening disturbed her thoughts. She let the book lie open in her lap and
looked into the hall. The glimpse she got of the real Gabriel Coleman in that instant was fascinating.
He didn't know anyone was around, and all the mocking arrogance was gone. He was quiet and
solemn, and he looked every year of his age. Dust covered him from his blue check shirt to his stained
jeans and wet boots. His black hair was disheveled and damp as well, and his face was heavily
lined. He tossed his hat onto the hall table and dropped the wide leather chaps he'd just discarded
onto the floor. He stretched, his hard muscles shuddering a little with the strain they'd been under.
Then, as he looked toward the living room and saw Maggie watching him, all the hardness returned to
his face, and to his pale, penetrating eyes.
"Couldn't you sleep?" he asked with a mocking smile. "If you're looking for the obvious remedy,
sorry, I'm too tired to oblige."
As she searched his face quietly, it suddenly dawned on her that he didn't really mean half the cutting
things he said. They seemed to be a kind of camouflage to keep women from getting close to him,
from looking beneath the savage surface. And at that realization, all the hot words poised on the tip of
her tongue faded away, forgotten.
"You said you'd fly me down to San Antonio to get Becky tomorrow," she said gently. "I hate to
remind you; you look so tired."
His face froze, as if the unexpected compassion had off-balanced him. "I remember."
She got to her feet. Bare feet, because she hated shoes, and hers were under a chair somewhere. "I
don't know if you have time now, with things so hectic here," she continued, facing him beside the
couch.
"I need to know, so that I can make other arrangements...."
He had just noticed her bare feet, and it seemed as if he were having problems keeping back a grin.
"Lost your shoes, Cinderella?"
Her bare toes wiggled. "I hate shoes," she muttered. "I even got Becky into the habit around the house,
and when she went back to school, she got kept in at recess for it."
“Does she like it at that school?" he asked unexpectedly.
"I suppose so." Maggie hesitated. "She doesn't talk about it. She's a very shy child." She frowned.
"She's so easily upset. Perhaps it would be better if I just went home now."
He cocked an eyebrow and slowly lit a cigarette, without once moving his eyes from her face.
"What are you afraid of? That I'll upset her? You might be surprised at the way she reacts to my
temper, city girl. Most people around here aren't that intimidated by it."
"Of course not," she agreed innocently. "That's why your men hide in the bushes every morning until
you're out of sight."
That did produce a smile, of sorts. "Kids see more than adults," he returned mysteriously. "I'll have to
get things organized before I can leave. We'll get away about nine."
"You're sure you don't mind?" she persisted.
“I don't put myself out for anyone unless it suits me," he said curtly.
"Then, thank you. I'll be ready."
She started past him, only to find his strong hand on her upper arm, halting her beside him.
"How old are you now?" he asked, his eyes all too close, too searching. It didn't help that her gaze
dropped to his hard mouth and remembered vividly its exciting touch.
"I—I'm twenty-five," she stammered.
He studied her quietly. "I'm thirty-eight."
"Yes, I know."
His eyes probed hers in a silence that began to simmer, until the world narrowed to the space they
occupied. He turned, just a little, and the cigarette went careening into a large ashtray so that both
lean hands could hold her there.
She flinched, and he shook his head.
"No," he said softly. Softly! It was the first time she'd heard that slow, tender note in his deep voice.
"I won't be rough with you. Not ever again."
Her body seemed to vibrate as she looked up at him uncomprehendingly.
"I've never deliberately hurt a woman before," he said slowly. "It's just that I've had so damned many
prospective brides flung at my head...." His hands slid up her arms, over her shoulders, to cup her
face. "I don't like having you flinch from me, Margaret," he whispered, bending. "So I'm going to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]