Justin. Diana Palmer

a red-faced apology. Bass had even cried. Perhaps his shame had prompted his next move, because he’d promised on the spot to give Justin the financial backing he needed to make the new feedlot a success. There was only one condition—that Shelby never know where the money came from. Then he’d left.

      Never one to believe ill of anyone without hard evidence, Justin phoned Shelby while Bass was still starting his car. But she didn’t deny what Justin had been told. In fact, she confirmed all of it, even the part about having slept with Wheelor. She’d only wanted to make Tom jealous so he’d propose, she told Justin. She hoped he hadn’t been too upset with her, but then, she’d always had everything she wanted, and Justin wasn’t rich enough to cater to her tastes just yet. But Tom was…

      Justin had believed her. And because she’d pushed him away the one time he’d tried to make love to her, her confession rang with the truth. He’d gone on a legendary bender afterward. And for the past six years, no other woman had ever gotten close enough to make a dent in his heart. He’d been impervious to all the offers, and there had been some. He wasn’t a handsome man. His dark face was too craggy, his features too irregular, his unsmiling countenance too forbidding. But he had wealth and power, and that drew women to him. He was too bitter, though, to accept that kind of attention. Shelby had hurt him as no one else in his life ever had, and for years all he’d lived for was the thought of vengeance.

      But now that he saw her brought to her knees financially, it was unsatisfying. All he could think of was that she was going to be hurt and she had no family, no friends to comfort her.

      The apartment above the law office where she worked was tiny, and it didn’t sit well with him that it was in such proximity to her bachelor boss. He knew Holman by reputation, and rumor had it that he liked pretty women. Shelby, with her long black hair, slender figure and green, sparkling eyes, would more than qualify. She was twenty-seven now, hardly a girl, but she didn’t look much older than she had when she and Justin became engaged. She had an innocence about her, still, that made Justin grind his teeth. It was false; she’d even admitted it.

      He paused at the door to the apartment, his hand raised to knock. There was a muffled noise from inside. Not laughter. Tears?

      His jaw tautened and he knocked roughly.

      The noise ceased abruptly. There was a scraping sound, like a chair being moved, and soft footsteps that echoed the quick, hard beat of his heart.

      The door opened. Shelby stood there, in clinging faded jeans and a blue checked shirt, her long dark hair disheveled and curling down her back, her green eyes red-rimmed and wet.

      “Did you come to gloat, Justin?” she asked with quiet bitterness.

      “It gives me no pleasure to see you humbled,” he replied, his chin lifted, his black eyes narrow. “Abby said you were alone.”

      She sighed, dropping her eyes to his dusty, worn boots. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve learned to live with it.” She shifted restlessly. “Are there a lot of people at the auction?”

      “The yard’s full,” he said. He took off his hat and held it in one hand while the other raked his thick, straight black hair.

      She looked up, her eyes lingering helplessly on the hard lines of his craggy face, on the chiseled mouth she’d kissed so hungrily six years ago. She’d been so desperately in love with him then. But he’d become something out of her slight experience the night they became engaged, and his ardor had frightened her. She’d fought away from him, and the memory of how it had been with him, just before the fear became tangible, was formidable. She’d wanted so much more than they’d shared, but she had more reason than most women to fear intimacy. But Justin didn’t know that and she’d been too shy to explain her actions.

      She turned away with a groan of anguish. “If you can bear my company, I’ll fix you a glass of iced tea.”

      He hesitated, but only for an instant. “I could use that,” he said quietly. “It’s hot as hell out there.”

      He followed her inside, absently closing the door behind him. But he stopped dead when he saw what she was having to contend with. He stiffened and almost cursed out loud.

      There were only two rooms in the makeshift apartment. They were bare except for a worn sofa and chair, a scratched coffee table and a small television set. Her clothes were apparently being kept in a closet, because there was no evidence of a dresser. The kitchen boasted a toaster oven and a hot plate and a tiny refrigerator. This, when she was used to servants and silk robes, silver services and Chippendale furniture.

      “My God,” he breathed.

      Her back stiffened, but she didn’t turn when she heard the pity in his deep voice. “I don’t need sympathy, thank you,” she said tightly. “It wasn’t my fault that we lost the place, it was my father’s. It was his to lose. I can make my own way in the world.”

      “Not like this, damn it!” He slammed his hat down on the coffee table and took the pitcher of tea out of her hands, moving it aside. His lean, work-roughened hands held her wrists and he stared down at her with determination. “I won’t stand by and watch you try to survive in a rattrap like this. Barry Holman and his charity be damned!”

      Shelby was shocked, not only by what he was saying, but by the way he looked. “It’s not a rattrap,” she faltered.

      “Compared to what you were used to, it is,” he returned doggedly. His chest rose and fell on an angry sigh. “You can stay with me for the time being.”

      She blushed beet-red. “In your house, alone with you?”

      He lifted his chin. “In my house,” he agreed. “Not in my bed. You won’t have to pay me for a roof over your head. I do remember with vivid clarity that you don’t like my hands on you.”

      She could have gone through the floor at the bitter mockery in the words. She couldn’t meet those black eyes or challenge the flat statement without embarrassing them both. Anyway, it was so long ago. It didn’t matter now.

      She looked at his shirt instead, at the thick mat of black hair under the white silk. He’d let her touch him there, once. The night of their engagement, he’d unbuttoned it and given her hands free license to do what they liked. He’d kissed her as if he’d die to kiss her, but he’d frightened her half out of her mind when the kisses went a little too far.

      Until that night, he’d never tried to touch her, or gone further than brief, light kisses. His holding back had first disturbed her and then made her curious. Surely Justin was as experienced as his brother, Calhoun. But perhaps he’d had hang-ups about the distance between their social standing. Justin had been barely middle class at the time, and Shelby’s family was wealthy. It hadn’t mattered to her, but she could see that it might have bothered Justin. And especially after she jilted him, because of her father’s treacherous insistence.

      She’d gotten even with her father, though. He’d planned for her to marry Tom Wheelor, in a cold-blooded merger of property, and Justin had gotten in the way. But Shelby had refused Tom Wheelor’s advances and she’d never let him touch her. She’d told Bass Jacobs she wouldn’t marry his wealthy young friend. The old man hadn’t capitulated then, but just before his death, when he realized how desperately Shelby loved Justin, he’d felt bad about what he’d done. He hadn’t told her that his guilt had driven him to stake Justin’s feedlot, but he’d apologized.

      She looked up then, searching Justin’s dark eyes quietly, remembering. It had been hard, going on without him. Her dreams of loving him and bearing his sons had died long ago, but it was still a pleasure beyond bearing just to look at him. And his hands on her wrists made her body glow, tingle with forbidden longings, like the warm threat of his powerful, cologne-scented body. If only her father hadn’t interfered. Inevitably, she’d have been able to explain her fears to Justin, to ask him to be gentle, to go slow. But it was too late now.

      “I know you don’t want me anymore, Justin,” she said gently. “I even understand why. You don’t need to feel responsible