Diana Palmer - Diana Palmer Texan Lovers

She turned around, her green eyes steady on his. “You weren’t the only one who dreamed, Justin,” she said. “I cared about you!”

His jaw tautened. “Sure you did. That’s why you sold me out for that boy millionaire.”

She stroked the banister absently. “Odd that I didn’t marry him, isn’t it?” she asked casually. “Very odd, wouldn’t you say, when I wanted his money badly enough to jilt you.”

He lifted the cigarette to his mouth. “He threw you over, I guess, when he found out you wanted the money more than you wanted him.”

“I never wanted him, or his money,” she said honestly. “I had enough of my own.”

He smiled at her. “Did you?” Surely she didn’t expect him to believe she was unaware of how much financial trouble her father had been in.

“You won’t listen,” she muttered. “You never would. I tried to tell you why I broke off the engagement—”

“You told me, all right! You couldn’t stand for me to touch you, but I knew that already.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “You pushed me away the night we got engaged,” he added huskily. “You were shaking like a leaf and your eyes were as big as saucers. You couldn’t get away from me quick enough.”

Her lips parted on a slow breath. “And you thought it was revulsion, of course?” she asked miserably.

“What else could it have been?” he shot back, his eyes glaring. “I didn’t come down in the last rain shower.” He turned. “Change your clothes and we’ll have supper. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

She wished she could tell him the truth. She wanted to, but he was so remote and his detached attitude intimidated her. With a sigh, she turned and went up the staircase numbly, wondering how she was going to live with a man she couldn’t even talk to about intimacy.

They had a quiet wedding supper. Maria put everything on the table and she and Lopez went out for the evening, offering quiet congratulations before they left.

Justin leaned back in his chair when he’d finished his steak and salad, watching Shelby pick at hers.

He felt vaguely guilty about their wedding day. But in a way, he was hiding from her. Hiding his real feelings, hiding his apprehension about losing her a second time. It had wrung him out emotionally six years before. He didn’t think he could bear it a second time, so he was trying to protect himself from becoming too vulnerable. But her sad little face was getting to him.

“Damn it, Shelby,” he ground out, “don’t look like that.”

She lifted her eyes. There was no life in them anymore. “I’m tired,” she said softly. “Do you mind if I go to bed after we eat?”

“Yes, I mind.” He threw down his napkin and lit a cigarette. “It’s our wedding night.”

She laughed bitterly. “So it is. What did you have in mind, some more comments on my scarlet past?”

He frowned slightly. She didn’t sound like Shelby. That edge to her voice was disturbing. His eyes narrowed. She’d lost her father, her home, her entire way of life, even her brother. She’d lost everything in recent weeks, and married him because she needed a little security. He’d given her hell, and now she looked as if today was the last straw on the camel’s back. He hadn’t meant for it to be that way. He didn’t want to hurt her. But he couldn’t seem to keep quiet; there were so many wounds.

He sighed heavily. His black eyes searched her wan face, remembering better times, happier times, when he could look at her and get drunk on just the sight of her smile.

“Are you sure you want to keep on working?” he asked quietly, just to change the subject, to get the conversation on an easier level.

She stared down at her plate. “Yes, I’d like to,” she said. “I’ve never really done any work before, except society functions and volunteer work. I like my job.”

“And Barry Holman?” he asked, his smile a challenge.

She got up. She was still wearing her white skirt with a pale pink blouse, and she looked feminine and elegant and very desirable. Her long hair waved down to her shoulders, and Justin wanted to get up and catch two handfuls of it and kiss her until she couldn’t stand up.

“Mr. Holman is my boss,” she said. “Not my lover. I don’t have a lover.”

He got up, too, moving closer, his eyes narrow and calculating, his body tense with years of frustrated desire. “You’re going to have one,” he said curtly.

She wouldn’t back away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her run. She lifted her face proudly, even though her knees felt weak and her heart was racing madly. She was afraid of him because of their past, because he wanted revenge. She was afraid because he thought she was experienced, and even with that minor surgery, she knew that it wasn’t going to be the easiest time of her life. Justin was deceptively strong. She knew the power in that lean, hard body, and to be overwhelmed by it in passion was a little scary.

He watched the fear flicker in her eyes, and understood it instantly. “You’re off base, honey,” he said quietly. “Way off base. I’d never hurt you in bed, not for revenge or any other reason.”

Her lower lip trembled on a stifled sob and tears welled in her eyes. She lowered her gaze to his broad chest, missing the faint shock in his face at her reaction. “Maybe you wouldn’t be able to help it,” she whispered.

“Shelby, are you really afraid of me?” he asked

huskily.

Her thin shoulders shifted. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Were you afraid with him?” he asked. “With Wheelor?”

She opened her mouth to speak and just gave up. What was the use? He wasn’t going to listen. She turned away and went toward the staircase.

“Running won’t solve anything,” he said shortly, watching her go with mingled feelings, the foremost of which was anger.

“Neither will trying to talk to you,” she replied. She turned at the bottom of the staircase, her green eyes bright with unshed tears and returning spirit. “Do your worst. Make me pay. I’m fresh out of things I care about. I’ve got absolutely nothing left to lose, so look out, Justin. I’m not going to live up to your idea of a society wife. I’m going to be myself, and I’m sorry if it destroys any of your old illusions.”

He eyed her quietly. “Meaning what?”

“No affairs,” she replied, picking the thought out of his mind. “Despite what you think of me, I’m not starved for a man.”

“That much I’d believe,” he said shortly. “My God, I get more warmth out of an ice cube than I ever got from you!”

She felt the impact of those words like daggers against her bare skin. She should have realized that he thought her frigid, but it had never really registered before.

“Maybe Tom Wheelor got more!” she threw at him.

His black eyes splintered with rage. He actually started toward her before he checked himself with the iron control that he kept on his temper.

Shelby saw that movement, and thanked God that he stopped when he did. She lifted her chin. “Good night, Justin. Thank you for a roof over my head and a place to live.”

His eyelids flickered as she started up the staircase. Looking at her he recalled years of dreams, of remembered delight in just being with her, frustration at having to hold back only to lose her anyway. He still cared. He’d lied to protect his pride, but he cared so much. And he was losing her, all over again.

He wanted to tell her that he hadn’t meant to accuse her of being frigid. He’d wanted her to distraction, and she hadn’t wanted him. That had hurt far more than having her break their engagement, especially when he’d found out that Tom Wheelor was her lover. It had damned near killed him. And here she was throwing it in his teeth, hitting him in his most vulnerable spot. He’d always wondered if she found him revolting physically. That was what made him believe that she’d meant what she told him about not wanting him, about wanting Tom Wheelor instead—that reluctance in her to let him get close to her.