Heartbreaker (6 page)

The telephone rang as Michelle was nursing
her second cup of coffee, watching the sun come up and preparing herself for
another day of chores that seemed to take more and more out of her. Dark
circles lay under her heavy-lidded eyes, testimony to hours of twisting
restlessly in bed while her mind insisted on replaying every word John had
said, every sensation his mouth and hands had evoked. His reputation was well
earned, she had thought bitterly in the early hours. Lady-killer. His touch was
burningly tender, but he was hell on his women anyway.

She didn't want to answer the phone, but she
knew John well enough to know he never gave up once he set his mind on
something. He'd be back, and she knew it. If that was him on the telephone,
he'd come over if she didn't answer. She didn't feel up to dealing with him in
person, so she picked up the receiver and muttered a hello.

"Michelle, darling."

She went white, her fingers tightening on the
receiver. Had she conjured him up by thinking about him the night before? She
tried
not
to think of him, to keep him locked in the past, but
sometimes the nightmare memories surfaced, and she felt again the terror of
being so alone and helpless, with no one she could trust to come to her aid,
not even her father.

"Roger," she said faintly. There
was no doubt. No one but her ex-husband said her name in that caressing tone,
as if he adored her.

His voice was low, thick. "I need you,
darling. Come back to me, please. I'm begging. I promise I'll never hurt you
again. I'll treat you like a princess—"

"No," she gasped, groping for a
chair to support her shaking legs. Cold horror made her feel sick. How could he
even suggest that she come back?

"Don't say that, please," he
groaned. "Michelle, Mother and Dad are dead. I need you now more than
ever. I thought you'd come for their funeral last week, but you stayed away,
and I can't stand it any longer. If you'll just come back I swear everything
will be different—"

"We're divorced," she broke in, her
voice thin with strain. Cold sweat trickled down her spine.

"We can be remarried. Please,
darling—"

"No!" The thought of being
remarried to him filled her with so much revulsion that she couldn't even be
polite. Fiercely she struggled for control. "I'm sorry about your parents;
I didn't know. What happened?"

"Plane crash." Pain still lingered
in his hoarse voice. "They were flying up to the lake and got caught in a
storm."

"I'm sorry," she said again, but
even if she'd known in time to attend the funeral, she never would have gone.
She would never willingly be in Roger's presence again.

He was silent a moment, and she could almost
see him rub the back of his neck in the unconscious nervous gesture she'd seen
so many times. "Michelle, I still love you. Nothing's any good for me
without you. I swear, it won't be the same as it was; I'll never hurt you
again. I was just so damned jealous, and I know now I didn't have any
reason."

But he did
! she thought, squeezing her eyes shut as guilt seeped
in to mix with the raw terror evoked by simply hearing his voice. Not
physically, but had there been any day during the past ten years when she
hadn't thought of John Rafferty? When part of her hadn't been locked away from
Roger and every other man because they weren't the heartbfeaker who'd stolen
her heart?

"Roger, don't," she whispered.
"It's over. I'll never come back. All I want to do now is work this ranch
and make a living for myself."

He made a disgusted sound. "You
shouldn't be working that dinky little ranch! You're used to much better than
that. I can give you anything you want."

"No," she said softly. "You
can't. I'm going to hang up now. Goodbye, and please don't call me again."
Very gently she replaced the receiver, then stood by the phone with her face
buried in her hands. She couldn't stop trembling, her mind and body reeling
with the ramifications of what he'd told her. His parents were dead, and she
had been counting on them to control him. That was the deal she'd made with
them; if they would keep Roger away from her, she wouldn't release the photos
and medical report to the press, who would have a field day with the scandal.
Imagine, a Beckman of Philadelphia nothing but a common wife-beater! That
evidence had kept her father safe from Roger's insane threats, too, and now he
was forever beyond Roger's reach. She had lived in hell to protect her father,
knowing that Roger was capable of doing exactly what he'd threatened, and
knowing after the first incident that his parents would make certain Roger was
protected, no matter what.

She had honestly liked her in-laws until
then, but her affection had died an irrevocable death when they had bought
Roger out of trouble the first time he'd really hurt her. She had known their
weakness then, and she had forced herself to wait. There was no one to help her;
she had only herself. Once she had been desperate enough to mention it to her
father, but he'd become so upset that she hadn't pushed it, and in only a
moment he'd convinced himself that she'd been exaggerating. Marriage was always
an adjustment, and Michelle was spoiled, highly strung. Probably it was just an
argument over some minor thing, and the young couple would work things out.

The cold feeling of aloneness had spread
through her, but she hadn't stopped loving him. He loved her, she knew he did,
but he saw her as more of a doll than a human being. His perfect, loving
darling. He couldn't accept such ugliness in her life. She had to be happy, or
it would mean he'd failed her in some basic way as a father, protector and
provider. For his own sake, he had to believe she was happy. That was his
weakness, so she had to be strong for both of them. She had to protect him, and
she had to protect herself.

There was no way she would ever go back to
Roger. She had dealt with the nightmares and put them behind her; she had
picked up the pieces of her life and gone on, not letting the memories turn her
into a frightened shell. But the memories, and the fear, were still there, and
all it took was hearing Roger's voice to make her break out in a cold sweat.

The old feeling of vulnerability and
isolation swept over her, making her feel sick.

She jerked around, wrenching herself from the
spell, and dashed what was left of her coffee down the drain. The best thing
was to be active, to busy herself with whatever came to hand. That was the way
she'd handled it when she had finally managed to get away from Roger,
globe-trotting for two years because her father had thought that would take her
mind off the divorce, and she had let the constant travel distract her. Now she
had real work to do, work that left her exhausted and aching but was somehow
healing, because it was the first worthwhile work she'd ever done.

It had been eating at him all morning.

He'd been in a bad mood from the moment he'd
gotten out of bed, his body aching with frustration, as if he were some randy
teenager with raging hormones. He was a long way from being a teenager, but his
hormones were giving him hell, and he knew exactly why. He hadn't been able to
sleep for remembering the way she'd felt against him, the sweetness of her
taste and the silky softness of her body. And she wanted him, too; he was too
experienced to be mistaken about something like that. But he'd pushed too hard,
driven by ten years of having an itch he couldn't scratch, and she'd balked.
He'd put her in the position of paying him with her body, and she hadn't liked
that. What woman would? Even the ones who were willing usually wanted a pretty
face put on it, and Michelle was haughtier than most.

But she hadn't looked haughty the day before.
His frown grew darker. She had tried, but the old snooty coldness was missing.
She was dead broke and had nowhere to turn. Perhaps she was scared, wondering
what she was going to do without the cushion of money that had always protected
her. She was practically helpless, having no job skills or talents other than
social graces, which weren't worth a hell of a lot on the market. She was all
alone on that ranch, without the people to work it.

He made a rough sound and pulled his horse's
head around. "I'll be back later," he told
Nev
, nudging the horse's flanks with his boot heels.

Nev
watched him ride away. "Good riddance," he
muttered. Whatever was chewing on the boss had put him in the worst mood
Nev
had ever seen; it would be a relief to work without
him.

John's horse covered the distance with long,
easy strides; it was big and strong, seventeen hands high, and inclined to be a
bit stubborn, but they had fought that battle a long time ago. Now the animal
accepted the mastery of the iron-muscled legs and strong, steady hands of his
rider. The big horse liked a good run, and he settled into a fast, smooth
rhythm as they cut across pastures, his pounding hooves sending clods of dirt
flying.

The more John thought about it the less he
liked it. She'd been trying to work that ranch by herself. It didn't fit in
with what he knew of Michelle, but her fragile hands bore the marks. He had
nothing but contempt for someone who disdained good honest work and expected
someone else to do it for them, but something deep and primitive inside him was
infuriated at the idea of Michelle even trying to manage the backbreaking
chores around the ranch. Damn it, why hadn't she asked for help? Work was one
thing, but no one expected her to turn into a cowhand. She wasn't strong
enough; he'd held her in his arms, felt the delicacy of her bones, the
greyhound slenderness of her build. She didn't need to be working cattle any
more than an expensive thoroughbred should be used to plow a field. She could
get hurt, and it might be days before anyone found her. He'd always been
disgusted with
Langley
for spoiling and protecting her, and with Michelle
for just sitting back and accepting it as her due, but suddenly he knew just
how
Langley
had felt. He gave a disgusted snort at himself,
making the horse flick his ears back curiously at the sound, but the hard fact
was that he didn't like the idea of Michelle's trying to work that ranch. It
was a man's work, and more than one man, at that.

Well, he'd take care of all that for her,
whether she liked it or not. He had the feeling she wouldn't, but she'd come
around. She was too used to being taken care of, and, as he'd told her, now it
was his turn.

Yesterday had changed everything. He'd felt
her response to him, felt the way her mouth had softened and shaped itself to
his. She wanted him, too, and the knowledge only increased his determination to
have her. She had tried to keep him from seeing it; that acid tongue of hers
would have made him lose his temper if he hadn't seen the flicker of
uncertainty in her eyes. It was so unusual that he'd almost wanted to bring
back the haughtiness that aggravated him so much… Almost, but not quite.
She was vulnerable now, vulnerable to him. She might not like it, but she
needed him. It was an advantage he intended to use.

There was no answer at the door when he got
to the ranch house, and the old truck was missing from its customary parking
place in the barn. John put his fists on his hips and looked around, frowning.
She had probably driven into town, though it was hard to think that Michelle
Cabot was willing to let herself be seen in that kind of vehicle. It was her
only means of transportation, though, so she didn't have much choice.

Maybe it was better that she was gone; he
could check around the ranch without her spitting and hissing at him like an
enraged cat, and he'd look at those cattle in the south pasture. He wanted to
know just how many head she was running, and how they looked. She couldn't
possibly handle a big herd by herself, but for her sake he hoped they were in
good shape, so she could get a fair price for them. He'd handle it himself,
make certain she didn't get rooked. The cattle business wasn't a good one for
beginners.

He swung into the saddle again. First he
checked the east pasture, where she had said the fence was down. Whole sections
of it would have to be replaced, and he made mental notes of how much fencing
it would take. The entire ranch was run-down, but fencing was critical; it came
first. Lush green grass covered the east pasture; the cattle should be in it
right now. The south pasture was probably overgrazed, and the cattle would show
it, unless the herd was small enough that the south pasture could provide for
its needs.

It was a couple of hours before he made it to
the south pasture. He reined in the horse as he topped a small rise that gave
him a good view. The frown snapped into place again, and he thumbed his hat
onto the back of his head. The cattle he could see scattered over the big
pasture didn't constitute a big herd, but made for far more than the small one
he'd envisioned.

The pasture was badly overgrazed, but
scattered clumps of hay testified to Michelle's efforts to feed her herd.
Slow-rising anger began to churn in him as he thought of her wrestling with
heavy bales of hay; some of them probably weighed more than she did.