Heartbreaker (7 page)

Then he saw her, and in a flash the anger
rose to boiling point. The old truck was parked in a clump of trees, which was
why he hadn't noticed it right off, and she was down there struggling to repair
a section of fencing by herself. Putting up fencing was a two-man job; one
person couldn't hold the barbed wire securely enough, and there was always the
danger of the wire backlashing. The little fool! If the wire got wrapped around
her, she wouldn't be able to get out of it without help, and those barbs could
really rip a person up. The thought of her lying tangled and bleeding in a coil
of barbed wire made him both sick and furious.

He kept the horse at an easy walk down the
long slope to where she was working, deliberately giving himself time to get
control of his temper. She looked up and saw him, and even from the distance
that still separated them he could see her stiffen. Then she turned back to the
task of hammering a staple into the fence post, her jerky movements betraying
her displeasure at his presence.

He dismounted with a fluid, easy motion,
never taking his gaze from her as he tied the reins to a low-hanging tree branch.
Without a word he pulled the strand of wire to the next post and held it taut
while Michelle, equally silent, pounded in another staple to hold it. Like him,
she had on short leather work gloves, but her gloves were an old pair of men's
gloves that had been left behind and were far too big for her, making it
difficult for her to pick up the staples, so she had pulled off the left glove.
She could handle the staples then, but the wire had already nicked her
unprotected flesh several times. He saw the angry red scratches; some of which
were deep enough for blood to well, and he wanted to shake her until her teeth
rattled.

"Don't you have any better sense than to
try to put up fencing on your own?" he rasped, pulling another strand
tight.

She hammered in the staple, her expression
closed. "It has to be done. I'm doing it."

"Not anymore, you aren't."

His flat statement made her straighten, her
hand closing tightly around the hammer. "You want the payment right
away," she said tonelessly, her eyes sliding to the cattle. She was a
little pale, and tension pulled the skin tight across her high cheekbones.

"If that's what I have to do." He
pried the hammer from her grip, then bent to pick up the sack of staples. He
walked over to the truck, then reached in the open window and dropped them onto
the floorboard. Then he lifted the roll of barbed wire onto the truck bed.
"That'll hold until I can get my men out here to do it right. Let's
go."

It was a good thing he'd taken the hammer
away from her. Her hands balled into fists. "I don't want your men out
here doing it right! This is still my land, and I'm not willing to pay the
price you want for your help."

"I'm not giving you a choice." He
took her arm, and no matter how she tried she couldn't jerk free of those long,
strong fingers as he dragged her over to the truck, opened the door and lifted
her onto the seat.

He released her then, slamming the door and
stepping back.

"Drive carefully, honey. I'll be right
behind you."

She had to drive carefully; the pasture was
too rough for breakneck speed, even if the old relic had been capable of it.
She knew he was easily able to keep up with her on his horse, though she didn't
check the rearview mirror even once. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to
think about selling the cattle to pay her debt. That would be the end of the
ranch, because she'd been relying on that money to keep the ranch going.

She'd hoped he wouldn't come back today,
though it had been a fragile hope at best. After talking to Roger that morning,
all she wanted was to be left alone. She needed time by herself to regain her
control, to push all the ugly memories away again, but John hadn't given her
that time. He wanted her, and like any predator he'd sensed her vulnerability
and was going to take advantage of it.

She wanted to just keep driving, to turn the
old truck down the driveway, hit the road and keep on going. She didn't want to
stop and deal with John, not now. The urge to run was so strong that she almost
did it, but a glance at the fuel gauge made her mouth twist wryly. If she ran,
she'd have to do it on foot, either that or steal John's horse.

She parked the truck in the barn, and as she
slid off the high seat John walked the horse inside, ducking his head a little
to miss the top of the doorframe. "I'm going to cool the horse and give
him some water,' ' he said briefly.''Go on in the house. I'll be there in a
minute."

Was postponing the bad news for a few minutes
supposed to make her feel better? Instead of going straight to the house, she
walked down to the end of the driveway and collected the mail. Once the mailbox
had been stuffed almost every day with magazines, catalogs, newspapers, letters
from friends, business papers, but now all that came was junk mail and bills.
It was odd how the mail reflected a person's solvency, as if no one in the
world wanted to communicate with someone who was broke. Except for past-due
bills, of course. Then the communications became serious. A familiar envelope
took her attention, and a feeling of dread welled in her as she trudged up to
the house. The electric bill was past due; she'd already had one late notice,
and here was another one. She had to come up with the money fast, or the power
would be disconnected. Even knowing what it was, she opened the envelope anyway
and scanned the notice. She had ten days to bring her account up to date. She
checked the date of the notice; it had taken three days to reach her. She had
seven days left. .

But why worry about the electricity if she
wouldn't have a ranch? Tiredness swept over her as she entered the cool, dim
house and simply stood for a moment, luxuriating in the relief of being out of the
broiling sun. She shoved the bills and junk mail into the same drawer of the
entry table where she had put the original bill and the first late notice; she
never forgot about them, but at least she could put them out of sight.

She was in the kitchen, having a drink of
water, when she heard the screen door slam, then the sharp sound of boot heels
on the oak parquet flooring as he came down the hallway. She kept drinking,
though she was acutely aware of his progress through the house. He paused to
look into the den, then the study. The slow, deliberate sound of those boots as
he came closer made her shiver in reaction. She could see him in her mind's
eye; he had a walk that any drugstore cowboy would kill for: that loose,
long-legged, slim-hipped saunter, tight buttocks moving up and down. It was a
walk that came naturally to hell-raisers and heartbreakers, and Rafferty was
both.

She knew the exact moment when he entered the
kitchen, though her back was to him. Her skin suddenly tingled, as if the air
had become charged, and the house no longer seemed so cool.

"Let me see your hand." He was so
close behind her that she couldn't turn without pressing against him, so she
remained where she was. He took her left hand in his and lifted it.

"They're just scratches," she
muttered.

She was right, but admitting it didn't
diminish his anger. She shouldn't have any scratches at all; she shouldn't be
trying to repair fencing. Her hand lay in his bigger, harder one like a pale,
fragile bird, too tired to take flight, and suddenly he knew that the image was
exactly right. She was tired.

He reached around her to turn on the water,
then thoroughly soaped and rinsed her hand. Michelle hurriedly set the water
glass aside, before it slipped from her trembling fingers, then stood
motionless, with her head bowed. He was very warm against her back; she fek
completely surrounded by him, with his arms around her while he washed her hand
with the gentleness a mother would use to wash an infant. That gentleness
staggered her senses, and she kept her head bent precisely to prevent herself
from letting it drop back against his shoulder to let him support her.

The soap was rinsed off her hand now, but
still he held it under the running water, his fingers lightly stroking. She
quivered, trying to deny the sensuality of his touch. He was just washing her
hand! The water was warm, but his hand was warmer, the rough calluses rasping
against her flesh as he stroked her with a lover's touch. His thumb traced
circles on her sensitive palm, and Michelle felt her entire body tighten. Her
pulse leaped, flooding her with warmth. "Don't," she said thickly,
trying unsuccessfully to pull free.

He turned off the water with his right hand,
then moved it to her stomach and spread his fingers wide, pressing her back
against his body. His hand was wet; she felt the dampness seeping through her
shirt in front, and the searing heat of him at her back. The smell of horse and
man rose from that seductive heat. Everything about the man was a come-on,
luring women to him.

"Turn around and kiss me," he said,
his voice low, daring her to do it.

She shook her head and remained silent, her
head bent.

He didn't push it, though they both knew that
if he had, she wouldn't have been able to resist him. Instead he dried her hand,
then led her to the downstairs bathroom and made her sit on the lid of the
toilet while he thoroughly cleaned the scratches with antiseptic. Michelle
didn't flinch from the stinging; what did a few scratches matter, when she was
going to lose the ranch? She had no other home, no other place she wanted to
be. After being virtually imprisoned in that plush penthouse in
Philadelphia
, she needed the feeling of space around her. The
thought of living in a city again made her feel stifled and panicky, and she
would have to live in some city somewhere to get a job, since she didn't even
have a car to commute. The old truck in the barn wouldn't hold up to a long
drive on a daily basis.

John watched her face closely; she was
distracted about something, or she would never have let him tend her hand the
way he had. After all, it was something she could easily have done herself, and
he'd done it merely to have an excuse to touch her. He wanted to know what she
was thinking, why she insisted on working this ranch when it had to be obvious
even to her that it was more than she could handle. It simply wasn't in
character for her.

"When do you want the money?" she
asked dully.

His mouth tightened as he straightened and
pulled her to her feet. "Money isn't what I want," he replied.

Her eyes flashed with green fire as she
looked at him. "I'm not turning myself into a whore, even for you! Did you
think I'd jump at the chance to sleep with you? Your reputation must be going
to your
head…stud
."

He knew people called him that, but when
Michelle said it, the word dripped with disdain. He'd always hated that
particular tone, so icy and superior, and it made him see red now. He bent down
until his face was level with hers, their noses almost touching, and his black
eyes were so fiery that she could see gold sparks in them. "When we're in
bed, honey, you can decide for yourself about my reputation."

"I'm not going to bed with you,"
she said through clenched teeth, spacing the words out like dropping stones
into water.

"The hell you're not. But it won't be
for this damned ranch." Straightening to his full height again, he caught
her arm. "Let's get that business settled right now, so it'll be out of
the way and you can't keep throwing it in my face."

"You're the one who put it on that basis,''
she shot back as they returned to the kitchen. He dropped several ice cubes in
a glass and filled it with water, then draped his big frame on one of the
chairs. She watched his muscular throat working as he drained the glass, and a
weak, shivery feeling swept over her. Swiftly she looked away, cursing her own
powerful physical response to the mere sight of him.

"I made a mistake," he said
tersely, putting the glass down with a thump. "Money has nothing to do
with it. We've been circling each other from the day we met, sniffing and
fighting like cats in heat. It's time we did something about it. As for the
debt, I've decided what I want. Deed that land you were going to sell over to
me instead, and we'll be even."

It was just like him to divide her attention
like that, so she didn't know how to react or what to say. Part of her wanted
to scream at him for being so smugly certain she would sleep with him, and part
of her was flooded with relief that the debt had been settled so easily. He
could have ruined her by insisting on cash, but he hadn't. He wasn't getting a
bad deal, by any means; it was good, rich pastureland he was obtaining, and he
knew it.

It was a reprieve, one she hadn't expected,
and she didn't know how to deal with it, so she simply sat and stared at him.
He waited, but when she didn't say anything he leaned back in his chair, his
hard face becoming even more determined. "There's a catch," he
drawled.

The high feeling of relief plummeted, leaving
her sick and empty. "Let me guess," she said bitterly, shoving her
chair back and standing. So it had all come down to the same thing after all.

His mouth twisted wryly in self-derision.
''You're way off, honey. The catch is that you let me help you. My men will do
the hard labor from now on, and if I even hear of you trying to put up fencing
again, you'll be sitting on a pillow for a month."