Diana Palmer - Heather's Song

Heather could almost see his neck hair bristling. That silvery glitter in his eyes was dangerous, and she didn’t like the way he fixed his icy gaze on the man sitting beside her on the bed.

“The stepbrother, I presume,” Gil said with irrepressible good humor as he rose to face the newcomer.

Cole wasn’t amused. He glared at the younger man, his powerful body held in rigid control.

Gil cleared his throat, disconcerted by that level stare. “I’m Gil Austin,” he said, breaking the silence. “I cover the entertainment beat for the News Herald— and Heather’s my girl.” He glanced possessively at the slender young woman under the white sheets.

Cole’s eyes seemed to explode. His jaw went even tauter in his dark face. “A reporter,” he said, making an insult of the word. His eyes swept contemptuously over the shorter man before he turned back to Heather. “I’ll come by for you first thing in the morning,” he told her curtly. “Is there anything you want from your apartment? You’ll be at the ranch for a few weeks, at least.”

Heather scribbled “my coat.” She grimaced at the faint amusement in Cole’s eyes. She was superstitious about the ankle-length ermine coat Cole had given her for her eighteenth birthday. She never traveled without it.

“I’ll bring it,” he promised. “Anything else?”

“My purse,” she scribbled, “my old one—in the closet.”

He frowned.

“I keep my important papers in it,” she wrote, “and my money.”

His eyes narrowed. “You won’t need a bankroll to come home with.”

She sighed with irritation. If only she could talk. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need his handouts…but he read the emotion in her eyes and lifted his head in that arrogant way he had. She could have hit him.

“Can I do anything?” Gil asked, feeling left out.

“We can manage,” Cole said abruptly, sparing the man a glance.

“I’d like to visit Heather while she’s recuperating,” he persisted.

Cole turned around and stared right through him. “The last thing she’s going to need right now are visitors,” he said without even pretending courtesy.

Heather gaped at him. Cole had always been possessive, but now he was acting as though he owned her. Why couldn’t she have visitors?

“Heather needs peace and quiet to get over the trauma of the accident. She’ll heal quicker with family,” Cole added, “and I’m going to take them to Nassau for a week or so, anyway. She can call you when she’s back on her feet.”

Gil hesitated. It was the first time Heather had known him to be without a comeback.

“Get some rest, baby,” Cole told her, bending to brush his hard lips against her hair. “I’ll be here early, so don’t stay up too late with your boyfriend,” he added pointedly. “Good night, Austin,” he said, pinning the other man with his narrowed eyes.

Gil cleared his throat. “You’re right, she does look tired. Good night, little one,” he said, resisting the urge to kiss her before he left. Everett looked frankly dangerous. “Nice to have met you,” he added, pausing to smile at Heather. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Over my dead body,” Cole muttered when he’d gone, and Heather noticed that one lean hand had all but crushed the crown of his Stetson.

“Why don’t you like him?” she wrote on the pad, holding it up with a frown.

“He’s too old for you,” he shot right back.

“I like him,” she scribbled angrily.

But he didn’t even answer her. “Emma’s cooking your favorite dishes,” he said pleasantly enough. “She ran Mrs. Jones out of the kitchen to start getting everything ready. Mothers!”

She smiled involuntarily. Emma might only be her stepmother, but she was as dear to Heather as if there’d been a blood tie between them. She sighed and closed her eyes. Maybe she did need to be alone for a while. Maybe it would do her good to get away from everyone who might remind her of her career and the strangely unsatisfying life she’d made for herself in Houston.

She opened her eyes suddenly to find Cole watching her. She dropped her gaze quickly to the bedclothes, wondering at the way her pulse was misbehaving.

“Good night, baby,” he said curtly and was gone before she could get her pulse under control.

Chapter Two

The flight to Branntville took hardly any time at all, and Heather watched the flat barren landscape with eyes that remembered it in spring, when the bluebonnets were blooming along with the black-eyed Susans and the trees were a hundred different soft shades of green. She smiled at the memory, and Cole took his eyes away from the controls long enough to read the expression on her flushed face.

“And you were willing to give it all up to sing in a nightclub,” he scoffed. “Still think it was a good trade—clean air for smoky rooms?”

She tossed her hair impatiently and glared up at him.

A slow, lazy smile touched his chiseled mouth. “All right, Sunflower.” He chuckled, using his childhood nickname for her. “I get the message.”

She tore her gaze away from his. Cole had a dark charm that must be devastating when he wanted something from a woman, she mused, letting her eyes focus on the beautifully masculine hands at the controls of the twin-engine Cessna. They were long-fingered and dark, and they held the promise of great strength. His mouth, too, was strong, with a sensuality she was only now beginning to notice. The thought brought a slight frown to her face. Would he be a gentle lover? She flushed, vividly remembering the night last year when she saw him kiss Tessa at her birthday party, his mouth rough, not an inch of space between his hard-muscled body and Tessa’s…. The sight had been disturbing to Heather, although she didn’t know why. She carried the picture in her mind for days afterward: Tessa had been clinging to Cole like ivy, as if his kiss was everything she needed from life. No, she thought uneasily, Cole wouldn’t be gentle. He was a man of extremes, and she sensed that his passions were strong ones. He wouldn’t be satisfied with the brief, cool kisses she bestowed on Gil Austin.

She shook herself mentally. Her own thoughts were shocking her, so she turned her attention out the window and watched for the familiar white fences that marked the outlying boundaries of Big Spur.

Minutes later, the house came into view below, surrounded by tall pecan and oak trees. It was brick, its architecture reminiscent of an English manor house. A long driveway circled in front of the entrance, lined with dogwoods that bloomed in white profusion each spring and a myriad of flowering shrubs. In her mind’s eye, Heather could see the interior of the towering mansion, the main reception rooms all opening off the center hall with its delightful winding staircase and massive crystal chandelier. The interior rooms were spacious, and the den where Cole did his paperwork had a huge stone fireplace and a very striking Belgian area rug done in deep wine. There was a three-car garage, a tennis court, a swimming pool and a patio with masses of rose bushes. It was like something out of a storybook, or the Old South—which wasn’t at all surprising, since the Shaws had emigrated to East Texas from Georgia. Heather’s great-grandfather had built the house, back in the days of the great cattle drives, and it had had its share of famous and infamous guests. In fact, Branntville itself was located on the old Chisholm Trail, a fact that had always excited Heather as a child.

The house was technically Emma’s now, willed to her by Heather’s late father. Heather never begrudged her stepmother that bequeathal. Emma had loved her stepdaughter like her own child, and that love had been returned full measure. It hurt to remember that Heather’s own mother had been a rather cool person, all elegance and high fashion and very little emotion.