Diana Palmer Texan Lovers. Diana Palmer

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 for me. I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself.”

      He breathed slowly, trying to keep himself under control. The feel of her silky skin was giving him some problems. Unwillingly, his thumbs began to caress her wrists.

      “I know that,” he said. “But you don’t belong here.”

      “I can’t afford a better apartment just yet,” she said. “But I’ll get a raise when I’ve been working for two months, and then maybe I can get the room that Abby had at Mrs. Simpson’s.”

      “You can get it now,” he said tersely. “I’ll loan you the money.”

      She lowered her eyes. “No. It wouldn’t look right.”

      “Only you and I would know.”

      She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t tell him that she hated the thought of being in this place, so near Barry Holman, who was a nice boss but a hopeless womanizer. She hesitated.

      Before she could say yes or no, there was a knock on the door. Justin let her go reluctantly and watched her move toward the door.

      Barry Holman stood there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, blond and blue-eyed and hopeful. “Hi, Shelby,” he said pleasantly. “I thought you might need some help moving…in.” His voice trailed away and he saw Justin standing behind her.

      “Not really,” Justin said with a cold smile. “She’s on her way over to Mrs. Simpson’s to take on Abby’s old room. I’m helping her move, although I knew she appreciated the offer of this—” he looked around distastefully “—apartment.”

      Barry Holman swallowed. He’d known Justin for a long time, and he was just about convinced that the rumors he’d heard were true. Justin might not want Shelby himself, but he was damned visible if anybody else made a pass at her.

      “Well,” he said, still smiling, “I’d better get back downstairs then. I had some calls to make. Good to see you again, Justin. See you early Monday morning, Shelby.”

      “Thanks anyway, Mr. Holman,” she said. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but Mrs. Simpson offers meals as well, and it’s peaceful there.” She smiled. “I’m not used to town living, and Mrs. Simpson has the room free right now…”

      “No hard feelings, you go right ahead.” Barry grinned. “So long.”

      Justin glared after him. “Lover boy,” he muttered. “Just what you need.”

      She turned, her eyes soft on his face. “I’m twenty-seven,” she said. “I want to marry and have children eventually. Mr. Holman is very nice, and he doesn’t have any bad habits.”

      “Except that he’ll sleep with anything that wears skirts,” he replied tersely. He didn’t like thinking about Shelby having another man’s children. His black eyes searched over her body. Yes, she was getting older, not that she looked it. In eight or ten years, children might be a risk for her. His expression hardened.