The Cowboy and the Lady. Diana Palmer

can’t imagine Jace the way he’s been, period.” Marguerite stood up. “For months now he’s walked around scowling, half-hearing me, so busy I can’t get two words out of him. And even Tess—you know, sometimes I get the very definite impression that Tess is like a fly to him, but he’s just too busy to swat her.”

      Amanda burst out laughing. The thought of the decorative brunette as a fly was totally incongruous. Tess, with her perfect makeup, flawless coiffures, and designer fashions would be horrified to hear them discussing her like this.

      Marguerite smiled. “I’m glad you don’t take what Jace says to heart. Your mother is my best friend, and none of what he said is true.”

      “But it is,” Amanda protested quietly. “We both know it, too. Mother is still living in the past. She won’t accept things the way they are.”

      “That’s still no excuse for Jace to ridicule her,” Marguerite replied. “I’m going to have a talk with him about that.”

      “If the way he looked at me was anything to go by, I think I’d feed him and get him drunk before I did that,” Amanda suggested.

      “I’ve never seen him drunk,” came the soft reply. “Although, he came close to it once,” she added, throwing a pointed look at the younger woman before she turned away. “I’ll see you downstairs. Don’t feel that you have to change, or dress up. We’re still very informal.”

      That was a blessing, Amanda thought later when she looked at her meager wardrobe. At one time, it would have boasted designer labels and fine silks and organzas with hand-embroidered hems. Now she had to limit spending to the necessities. With careful shopping and her own innate good taste, she had put together an attractive, if limited, wardrobe, concentrating on the clothes she needed for work. There wasn’t an evening gown in the lot. Oh, well, at least she wouldn’t need one of those.

      

      * * *

      She showered and slipped into a white pleated skirt with a pretty navy blue blouse and tied a white ruffled scarf at her throat to complete the simple but attractive-looking outfit. She tied her hair back with a piece of white ribbon, and slipped her hosed feet into a pair of dark blue sandals. Then with a quick spray of cologne and a touch of lipstick, she went downstairs.

      Terry was the first person she saw, standing in the doorway of the living room with a brandy snifter in his hand.

      “There you are.” He grinned, his eyes sweeping up and down her slender figure mischievously. “Going sailing?”

      “Thought I might,” she returned lightly. “Care to swim alongside and fend off the sharks?”

      He shook his head. “I suffer from acute cowardice, brought on by proximity to sharks. One of them was rumored to have eaten a great-aunt of mine.”

      With a laugh like sunlight filtering into a yellow room, she walked past him into the spacious living room and found herself looking straight into Jace’s silvery eyes. That intense stare of his was disconcerting, and it did crazy things to her heart. She jerked her own gaze down to the carpet.

      “Would you like some sherry?” he asked her tightly.

      She shook her head, moving to Terry’s side like a kitten edging up to a tomcat for safety. “No, thanks.”

      Terry put a thin arm around her shoulders affectionately. “She’s a caffeine addict,” he told Jace. “She doesn’t drink.”

      Jace looked as if he wanted to crush his brandy snifter in his powerful brown fingers and grind it into the carpet. Amanda couldn’t remember ever seeing that particular look on his face before.

      He turned away before she had time to analyze it. “Let’s go in. Mother will be down eventually.” He led the way into the dining room, and Amanda couldn’t help admire the fit of his brown suit with its attractive Western yoke, the way it emphasized his broad shoulders from the back. He was an attractive man. Too attractive.

      Amanda was disconcerted to find herself seated close beside Jace, so close that her foot brushed his shiny brown leather boot under the table. She drew it back quickly, aware of his taut, irritated glance.

      “Tell me why Duncan thinks we need an advertising agency,” Jace invited arrogantly, leaning back in his chair so that the buttons of his white silk shirt strained against the powerful muscles of his chest. The shirt was open at the throat, and there were shadows under its thinness, hinting at the covering of thick, dark hair over the bronzed flesh. Amanda remembered without wanting to how Jace looked without a shirt. She drew her eyes back to her spotless china plate as Mrs. Brown, Marguerite’s prize cook, ambled in with dishes of expertly prepared food. A dish containing thick chunks of breaded, fried cube steak and a big steaming bowl of thick milk gravy were set on the spotless white linen tablecloth, along with a platter of cat’s head biscuits, real butter, cabbage, a salad, asparagus tips in hollandaise sauce, a creamy fruit salad, homemade rolls and cottage fried potatoes. Amanda couldn’t remember when she’d been confronted by such a lavish selection of dishes, and she realized with a start how long it had been since she’d been able to afford to set a table like this.

      She nibbled at each delicious spoonful as if it would be her last, savoring every bite, while Terry’s pleasant voice rambled on.

      Marguerite joined them in the middle of Terry’s sales pitch, smiling all around as she sat in her accustomed place at the elegant table with its centerpiece of white daisies.

      “I’m sorry to be late,” she said, “but I lost track of time. There’s a mystery theater on the local radio station, and I’m just hooked on it.”

      “Detective stories,” Jace scoffed. “No wonder you leave your light on at night.”

      Marguerite lifted her thin face proudly. “A lot of people use night-lights.”

      “You use three lamps,” he commented. His gray eyes sparkled at her and he winked suddenly, smiling. Amanda, on the fringe of that smile, felt something warm kindle inside her. He was devastating when he used that inherent charm of his. No woman alive could have resisted it, but she’d only seen it once, a very long time ago. She dropped her eyes back to her plate and finished the last of her fruit salad with a sigh.

      In the middle of Terry’s wrap-up, the phone rang and, seconds later, Jace was called away from the table.

      Marguerite glared after him. “Once,” she muttered, “just once, to have an uninterrupted meal! If it isn’t some problem with the ranch that Bill Johnson, our manager, can’t handle, it’s a personnel problem at one of the companies, or some salesman wanting to interest him in a new tractor, or another rancher trying to sell him a bull, or a newspaper wanting information on a merger.” She glared into space. “Last week it was a magazine wanting to know if Jace was getting married. I told them yes,” she said with ill-concealed irritation, “and I can’t wait until someone shoves the article under his nose!”

      Amanda laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, how could you?”

      “How could she what?” Jace asked, returning just in time to catch that last remark.

      Amanda shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with her linen napkin while Marguerite’s thin face seemed to puff up indignantly.

      “Another disaster?” Marguerite asked him as he sat back down. “The world goes to war if you finish one meal?”

      Jace raised an eyebrow at her, sipping his coffee. “Would you like to take over?”

      “I’d simply love it,” she told her son. “I’d sell everything.”

      “And condemn Duncan and me to growing roses?” he teased.

      She relented. “Well if we could just have one whole meal together, Jason…”

      “How would you cope?” he teased. “It’s never happened.”

      “And when your father was still alive, it was worse,” she