Reckless Passion (8 page)

"What if I told you I was also sorry?" he whispered tantalizingly, his mouth seeking out the vulnerable place behind her ear. Lazily his hand toyed with the wing of hair in the way.

"Sorry! Sorry for what?" she challenged, wishing she could cry but far too angry to do any such thing. She stood rigidly in his embrace, stoically ignoring the inviting gentleness of his mouth and the sensuous heat of his body. She had learned her lesson last night. Never again would she let her emotions run away with her common sense. What a fool she had been!

"For getting you involved in that stupid tavern brawl last night, for the cheap motel room, for stranding you two hours away from home in strange surroundings, for taking you out of your world and showing you something of mine...."

"Beginning to realize you handled it all wrong, are you?" she flung back waspishly, closing her eyes fiercely against the tenderness in his mouth and hands. She would not let herself be seduced again!

"Yes," he admitted wryly. "I never meant to put you in a temper like this! I never meant to spend our first night together in a place like this and I never meant to wind up in a honky-tonk with you, either. But you just kept pushing..."

"So now it's my fault again, is it?"

He sighed. "Why don't we call it quits and start over again? I'll take you home and we can do things right this time around. I'll go back to my Southern-gentleman accountant role and show you that I've put truck stops and barroom brawls behind me. Trust me,
Dara
," he added on a low, husky note. "You won't regret it...."

"You're right. I won't regret it because I don't intend to let you try to
repolish
your image! I'll always have the memory of waking up in this place and hearing you tell me you were pleased with the transaction. Nothing will wipe that out of my mind, Yale! And I'm smart enough to know better than to cast pearls before swine twice!"

He whitened at that. She felt the sudden tension in him and knew a moment's genuine fear. Unconsciously, she touched her tongue to her lower lip, wondering if she really had gone too far this time. Eyes wide and reflecting an appeal of which she wasn't aware,
Dara
waited for his reaction.

"Your temper is as strong as your passion, isn't it?'' he finally observed in an even tone which startled her. She knew he was exerting a considerable effort to avoid wrapping his hands around her throat. The knowledge gave her a perverse pleasure.

"You haven't seen the half of it yet," she vowed feelingly, tossing her head with scorn. "Give me an opportunity and I'll prove my temper is a lot more interesting than my passion!"

A slow smile twisted his mouth as he ran a reminiscent gaze over her face and bare shoulders. "Nothing could interest me as much as the feel of you coming alive under my hands!" he retorted gently, eyes softening. "You are
all the
woman a man could want, my sweet
Dara
. Go ahead and threaten me all you like, it won't make any difference. You're
mine
now."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't belong to you or any other man. Take your hands off me, Yale. I want to go home."

He hesitated, as if considering the best method of handling her. "Maybe you'll be in a better mood after breakfast," he tried lightly, sliding his hands sensuously down her arms and catching hold of her wrists. "Shall I feed you, little tabby?" he asked whimsically, turning his head to kiss the delicate inside of her wrist. His eyes gleamed. "Will that put you in a more loving mood?"

"What do you care?" she challenged icily. "You're not interested in love.
Only a business transaction!"

"I'll bet," he hazarded sadly, "that if I made an apology for that remark this morning you wouldn't accept it, would you?"

"No, I would not! Nothing you can say now will wipe out your earlier words! I know better than to trust you, Yale Ransom. I've learned my lesson!"

He drew a deep breath, and
Dara
knew he was still undecided about how to deal with her mood. "Well, we might as well try the food first. If that doesn't work, I'm sure I'll think of something else. Go and get dressed, honey. We'll talk this out eventually...."

She tugged free of his hands, walking regally across the room to retrieve her clothes and then sweeping into the bath without a backward glance. Damn the barbarian! She would not give in to tears. Not over a man like that!

She tried vainly to plot revenge in the shower, using the washcloth savagely in an effort to remove all traces of him. The rush of water over her face made the desire to cry even stronger. But she stifled it, keeping her anger whipped up instead.

By the time she had stepped out and toweled briskly,
Dara
felt she had herself under control. She had sternly opted for a cold, austere manner in the hope it would help her get through the next few hours with some dignity. It was all a woman had at a time like this. Revenge was wishful thinking.

"Well, it's safe to say there won't be many women dressed like that at breakfast!" Yale quipped humorously as she stepped out of the bathroom.

She chose to ignore him, turning to the mirror to run a comb through her hair. His eyes met hers there and he smiled, trying to coax her into a better mood.

"But you do look good in green," he tried, studying the dress. He was wearing his jockey shorts now, his tanned body looking lean and powerful as he held the dark slacks and white shirt lightly clasped in one hand.

"Go to hell," she told him briefly and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow.

Without another word he stalked into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he ushered her into the twenty-four-hour coffee shop next door to the motel, gallantly moving to put himself between her and the curious eyes which glanced up from early-morning coffee to blink at the sight of a woman in an emerald cocktail dress.
Dara
made no objection as Yale seated her in a far booth and slid in beside her.

He was wearing his glasses again this morning and his sleeves were neatly buttoned at the cuff. The honey-colored hair was tidy and there was a general air of restraint about him.
Dara's
lips quirked downward in disgust. Nothing Yale Ransom did now would fool her. She knew the kind of man he really was.

"What would you like?" he asked politely as the waitress appeared to take their order.

"Cold cereal, please,"
Dara
said crisply, giving her order directly to the brunette woman holding the pad and pencil.
"And coffee."

"You need more than that," Yale interrupted with a frown, scanning the menu. "Bring her a number three.
And the same for me."

The woman dutifully scratched
Dara's
order from the pad and wrote the new one. With a casual nod, she left.

"That was a waste of food and money,"
Dara
informed him coldly. "I'm not hungry."

"You need a nice, hot breakfast," he began in a lecturing tone.

"Forget it," she gritted in resignation, lifting her eyes heavenward in silent appeal. "I'll eat it if it will stop you from talking to me as if I were a child!"

"You're not a child, you're a woman scorned, remember?" he muttered grimly. "Except that you're not exactly being scorned. But those are petty details to a female in your present frame of mind."

Dara
refused to look at him, her eyes following the waitress as the woman returned to the table with coffee.

"At least she isn't staring at your outfit," Yale observed quietly when they were alone.

"She's probably been on duty since midnight. You see a little of everything sooner or later on that shift,"
Dara
explained woodenly, sipping her coffee with care.

"How do you know?" Yale sounded mildly surprised.

"Because I've worked it."
She shrugged, still refusing to glance in his direction.

"You've worked in a place like this?"

"Every summer while I was in college," she explained shortly, not particularly interested in pursuing the conversation.

"No kidding? What else have you done? I think you said something last night about only recently having become a stockbroker."

Dara
favored him with a baleful gaze at that question. "Why do you want to know?"

He shrugged, lifting his coffee cup and eyeing her over the rim. "I suppose I'm kind of curious."

“Take a tip from me. Curiosity doesn't pay," she retorted flatly.

One amber brow went up. "We are singing a different tune this morning, aren't we?"

Dara
gritted her teeth, about to dredge up a scathing reply when a deep, cheerfully rumbling male voice interrupted the conversation.

"Excuse me, folks, but the little lady in green wouldn't happen to be a stockbroker by any chance, would she?"

Dara
glanced up, startled, to find a huge, friendly-looking man in his mid-forties staring down at her with smiling gray eyes. He reminded
her a
lot of Hank Bonner in his choice of a size thirty-four belt for a waistline considerably larger. The man was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans. He had
longdistance
trucker written all over him.

"May I ask who wants to know?" Yale's question was polite, but there was a firmness to it that drew the man's respectful attention.

"Sam's the name. Sam Tyler," he said at once, extending a wide paw of a hand to shake Yale's. "And I'll bet your name's Ransom, right?"

"You seem to know a great deal more about us than we know about you," Yale pointed out with a deliberate smile.

"There couldn't be two ladies in green at this particular truck stop on this particular morning. Mind if I join you for a cup? Hank Bonner's the source of my information, by the way."

"I see," Yale said slowly, speculatively. "Sit down, by all means. Where did you
ran
into Hank?"

"Having coffee a ways down the line.
He knew I was
headin
' north and asked me to deliver a message if I found you two at this café. Also suggested you might
be needing
a ride into Eugene!"

"That was thoughtful of him,"
Dara
said quickly,
wondering why Yale seemed a little aloof. She had been wondering how they were going to get home.

"He also said to tell you the hand
was
doing fine," Sam added with a smile.

"I'm glad. What was the message?"
Dara
asked encouragingly. Yale seemed a little more relaxed now.

"Well, I guess I'd have to say that's a tad more serious...." The big trucker's gaze sobered and he turned to face Yale.

"Trouble?"
Yale's eyes were cool and more alert than the situation seemed to call for,
Dara
decided.

"A little, I reckon. Hank said he mentioned his, uh, special cargo to you?"

"He did," Yale said briefly, ignoring
Dara's
frown.

She glanced from one man to the other, perplexed. "What are you talking about? What 'special cargo'?"

A silent look passed between the two men. The sort of Do-we-tell-the-little-lady-about-this-or- not?
glance
that was enough to boil a woman's blood. And
Dara
was already on a high simmer.

Yale considered the relentless expression in the gray-green ice of her eyes and appeared to come to a reluctant decision.

"A short while before we met Hank last night he stumbled across something unexpected being shipped in his truck.
Something which had been taped to the cab in an inconspicuous place by someone who apparently intended to retrieve it later.
Probably after Hank had obligingly brought it down from Canada and across a couple of state lines...."

"What sort of 'something'?
Drugs?"

"She's right quick,
ain't
she?" Sam Tyler offered admiringly to Yale as if complimenting him on a well-trained horse.

"A little too quick at times, I'm afraid," Yale growled, shooting
Dara
a withering glance. "At any rate, Hank removed the stuff and then put out a quiet warning to friends at a few stops. They didn't spill it on the CB because he had hopes of catching the guy when he came looking for his stuff."