Heartbreaker (12 page)

She began to tremble, thinking of the things
he'd done during the night, the way he'd made her feel. She hadn't known her
body could take over like that, that she could revel in being possessed, and
despite the outdated notion that a man could physically "possess" a
woman, that was what had happened. She felt it, instinctively and deeply, the
sensation sinking into her bones.

He sauntered from the bathroom wearing only a
towel hitched low on his hips, the thick velvety fabric contrasting whitely
with the bronzed darkness of his abdomen. His hair and mustache still gleamed
wetly; a few drops of moisture glistened on his wide shoulders and in the curls
that darkened his broad chest. Her mouth went dry. His body hair followed the
tree of life pattern, with the tufts under his arms and curls across his chest,
then the narrowing line that ran down his abdomen before spreading again at his
groin. He was as superbly built as a triathlete, and she actually ached to
touch him, to run her palms all over him.

He gave her a hard, level look. "Stop
stalling and get packed."

"I'm not going." She tried to sound
strong about it; if her voice lacked the volume she'd wanted, at least it was
even.

"You'll be embarrassed if you don't have
anything on besides that robe when I carry you into my house," he warned
quietly.

"John—" She stopped, then
made a frustrated motion with her hand. "I don't want to get involved with
you."

"It's a little late to worry about that
now," he pointed out.

"I know," she whispered. "Last
night shouldn't have happened."

"Damn it to hell, woman, it should've
happened a long time ago." Irritated, he dropped the towel to the floor
and picked up his briefs. "Moving in with me is the only sensible thing to
do. I normally work twelve hours a day, sometimes more. Sometimes I'm up all
night Then there's the paperwork to do in the evenings; hell, you know what it
takes to run a ranch. When would I get over to see you? Once a week? I'll be
damned if I'll settle for an occasional quickie."

"What about
my
ranch? Who'll
take care of it while I make myself convenient to you whenever you get the
urge?"

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Baby,
if you lay down every time I got the urge, you'd spend the next year on your
back. I get hard every time I look at you."

Involuntarily her eyes dropped down his body,
and a wave of heat washed over her when she saw the proof of his words swelling
against the white fabric of his underwear. She jerked her gaze away, swallowing
to relieve the dry tightness of her throat "I have to take care of my
ranch," she repeated stubbornly, as if they were magic words that would
keep him at bay.

He pulled on his pants, impatience deepening
the lines that bracketed his mouth. "I'll take care of both ranches. Face
facts, Michelle. You need help. You can't do it on your own."

"Maybe not, but I need to try. Don't you
understand?" Desperation edged into her tone. "I've never had a job, never
done anything to support myself, but I'm trying to learn. You're stepping right
into Dad's shoes and taking over, handling everything yourself, but what
happens to me when you get bored and move on to the next woman? I still won't
know how to support myself!"

John paused in the act of zipping his pants,
glaring at her. Damn it, what did she think he'd do, toss her out the door with
a casual, "It's been fun, but I'm tired of you now?" He'd make
certain she was on her feet, that the ranch was functioning on a profitable
basis, if the day ever came when he looked at her and
didn't
want her.
He couldn't imagine it. The desire for her consumed him like white-burning
fire, sometimes banked, but never extinguished, heating his body and mind. He'd
wanted her when she was eighteen and too young to handle him, and he wanted her
now.

He controlled his anger and merely said,
"I'll take care of you."

She gave him a tight little smile.
"Sure." In her experience, people looked after themselves. Roger's
parents had protected him to keep his slipping sanity from casting scandal on
their
family name. Her own father, as loving as he'd been, had ignored her plea for
help because he didn't like to think his daughter was unhappy; it was more
comfortable for him to decide she'd been exaggerating. The complaint she'd
filed had disappeared because some judge had thought it would be advantageous
to make friends with the powerful Beckmans. Roger's housekeeper had looked the
other way because she liked her cushy well-paid job. Michelle didn't blame
them, but she'd learned not to expect help, or to trust her life to others.

John snatched his shirt from the floor, his
face dark with fury. "Do you want a written agreement?"

Tiredly she rubbed her forehead. He wasn't
used to anyone refusing to obey him whenever he barked out an order. If she
said yes, she would be confirming what he'd thought of her in the beginning,
that her body could be bought. Maybe he even wanted her to say yes; then she'd
be firmly under his control, bought and paid for. But all she said was,
"No, that isn't what I want."

"Then what, damn it?"

Just his love. To spend the rest of her life
with him. That was all.

She might as well wish for the moon.

"I want to do it on my own."

The harshness faded from his face. "You
can't." Knowledge gave the words a finality that lashed at her.

"I can try."

The hell of it was, he had to respect the
need to try, even though nature and logic said she wouldn't succeed. She wasn't
physically strong enough to do what had to be done, and she didn't have the
financial resources; she'd started out in a hole so deep that she'd been doomed
to fail from the beginning. She would wear herself to the bone, maybe even get
hurt, but in the end it would come full circle and she would need someone to
take care of her. All he could do was wait, try to watch out for her, and be
there to step in when everything caved in around her. By then she'd be glad to
lean on a strong shoulder, to take the place in life she'd been born to occupy.

But he wasn't going to step back and let her
pretend nothing had happened between them the night before. She was his now,
and she had to understand that before he left. The knowledge had to be burned
into her flesh the way it was burned into his, and maybe it would take a lesson
in broad daylight for her to believe it. He dropped his shirt and slowly
unzipped his pants, watching her. When he left, he'd leave his touch on her
body and his taste in her mouth, and she'd feel him, taste him, think of him
every time she climbed into this bed without him.

Her green eyes widened, and color bloomed on
her cheekbones. Nervously she glanced at the bed, then back at him.

His heart began slamming heavily against his
rib cage. He wanted to feel the firmness of her breasts in his hands again,
feel her nipples harden in his mouth. She whispered his name as he dropped his
pants and came toward her, putting his hands on her waist, which was so slender
that he felt he might break her in two if he wasn't careful.

As he bent toward her, Michelle's head fell
back as if it were too heavy for her neck to support He instantly took
advantage of her vulnerable throat, his mouth burning a path down its length.
She had wanted to deny the force of what had happened, but her body was
responding feverishly to him, straining against him in search of the mindless
ecstasy he'd given her before. She no longer had the protection of ignorance.
He was addictive, and she'd already become hooked. As he took her down to the
bed, covering her with his heated nakedness, she didn't even think of denying
him, or herself.

Are you on the pill?

No.

Damn
. Then,
How long until your next period
?

Soon. Don't worry. The timing isn't
right.

Famous last words. You'd better get a
prescription.

I can't take the pill. I've tried; it
makes me throw up all day long. Just like being pregnant.

Then we'll do something else. Do you want
to take care of it, or do you want me to?

The remembered conversation kept replaying in
her mind; he couldn't have made it plainer that he considered the relationship
to be an ongoing one. He had been so matter-of-fact that it hadn't registered
on her until later, but now she realized her acquiescent "I will" had
acknowledged and accepted his right to make love to her. It hadn't hit her
until he'd kissed her and had driven away that his eyes had been gleaming with
satisfaction that had nothing to do with being physically sated.

She had some paperwork to do and forced
herself to concentrate on it, but that only brought more problems to mind. The
stack of unpaid bills was growing, and she didn't know how much longer she
could hold her creditors off. They needed their money, too. She needed to
fatten the cattle before selling them, but she didn't have the money for grain.
Over and over she tried to estimate how much feed would cost, balanced against
how much extra she could expect from the sale of heavier cattle. An experienced
rancher would have known, but all she had to go on were the records her father
had kept, and she didn't know how accurate they were. Her father had been
wildly enthusiastic about his ranch, but he'd relied on his foreman's advice to
run it.

She could ask John, but he'd use it as
another chance to tell her that she couldn't do it on her own.

The telephone rang, and she answered it
absently.

"Michelle, darling."

The hot rush of nausea hit her stomach, and
she jabbed the button, disconnecting the call. Her hands were shaking as she
replaced the receiver. Why wouldn't he leave her alone? It had been two years!
Surely he'd had time to get over his sick obsession; surely his parents had
gotten him some sort of treatment!

The telephone rang again, the shrill tone
filling her ears over and over. She counted the rings in a kind of frozen
agony, wondering when he'd give up, or if her nerves would give out first What
if he just let it keep ringing? She'd have to leave the house or go screaming
mad. On the eighteenth ring, she answered.

"Darling, don't hang up on me again,
please," Roger whispered. "I love you so much. I have to talk to you
or go crazy."

They were the words of a lover, but she was
shaking with cold. Roger was already crazy. How many times had he whispered
love words to her only moments after a burst of rage, when she was stiff with
terror, her body already aching from a blow? But then he'd be sorry that he'd
hurt her, and he'd tell her over and over how much he loved her and couldn't
live without her.

Her lips were so stiff that she could barely
form the words. "Please leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you."

"You don't mean that. You know I love
you. No one has ever loved you as much as I do."

"I'm sorry," she managed.

"Why are you sorry?"

"I'm not going to talk to you, Roger.
I'm going to hang up."

''Why can't you talk? Is someone there with
you?''

Her hand froze, unable to remove the receiver
from her ear and drop it onto its cradle. Like a rabbit numbed by a snake's
hypnotic stare, she waited without breathing for what she knew was coming.

"Michelle! Is someone there with
you?"

"No," she whispered. "I'm
alone."

"You're lying! That's why you won't talk
to me. Your lover is there with you, listening to every word you're
saying."

Helplessly she listened to the rage building
in his voice, knowing nothing she said would stop it, but unable to keep
herself from trying. "I promise you, I'm alone."

To her surprise he fell silent, though she
could hear his quickened breath over the wire as clearly as if he were standing
next to her. "All right, I'll believe you. If you'll come back to me, I'll
believe you."

"I can't—"

"There's someone else, isn't there? I
always knew there was. I couldn't catch you, but I always knew!"

"No. There's no one. I'm here all alone,
working in Dad's study." She spoke quickly, closing her eyes at the lie.
It was the literal truth, that she was alone, but it was still a lie. There had
always been someone else deep in her heart, buried at the back of her mind.

Suddenly his voice was shaking. "I
couldn't stand it if you loved someone else, darling. I just couldn't. Swear to
me that you're alone."

"I swear it." Desperation cut at
her. "I'm completely alone, I swear!"

"I love you," Roger whispered, and
hung up.

Wildly she ran for the bathroom, where she
retched until she was empty and her stomach muscles ached from heaving. She
couldn't take this again; she would have the phone number changed, keep it
unlisted. Leaning against the basin, she wiped her face with a wet cloth and
stared at her bloodless reflection in the mirror. She didn't have the money to
pay for having her number changed and taken off the listing.