Diana Palmer - Dangerous

“We don’t have any contact at all. We didn’t,” she corrected. “He died a month ago. Or so we were told.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her dark eyes were cold. “I’m not. He and my mother ran away together and left my father with three kids to raise. Well, two kids actually. Boone was in the military by then. I look like my mother. Dad hated that. He hated me.” She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to say as much.

But he read that in her expression. “We all have pivotal times in our lives, when a decision leads to a different future.” He smiled. “In the sixteenth century, Henry VIII fell in love with a young girl and decided that his Catholic wife, Catherine of Aragon, was too old to give him a son anyway, so he spent years finding a way to divorce her and marry the young girl, whom he was certain could produce a male heir. In the end, he destroyed the Catholic Church in England to accomplish it. He married Ann Boleyn, a protestant who had been one of Catherine’s ladies, and from that start the Anglican Church was born. The child of that union was not a son, but Elizabeth, who became queen of England after her brother and half sister. All that, for love of a woman.” He pursed his lips and his eyes twinkled. “As it turned out, he couldn’t get a son from Ann Boleyn either, so he found a way to frame her for adultery and cut off her head. Ten days later, he married a woman who could give him a son.”

“The wretch!” she exclaimed, outraged.

“That’s why we have elected officials instead of kings with absolute power,” he told her.

She shook her head. “How do you know all that?”

He leaned down. “You mustn’t mention it, but I have a degree in history.”

“Well!”

“But I specialized in Scottish history, not English. I’m one of a handful of people who think James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, got a raw deal from history for marrying Mary, Queen of Scots. But don’t mention that out loud.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

He opened her car door for her. Before she got in, he drew a long strand of her blond hair over his big hand, studying its softness and beautiful pale color.

Her eyes slid over his face. “Your brother wears his hair long, in a ponytail. You keep yours short.”

“Is that a question?”

She nodded.

“Jon is particularly heavy on the Native American side of his ancestry.”

“And you aren’t?”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, Winnie,” he said quietly, making her name sound foreign and sweet and different. “Maybe I’m hiding from it.”

“Not you,” she said with conviction. “I can’t see you hiding from anything.”

That soft pride in her tone made him feel taller. He let go of her hair. “Drive carefully,” he said.

“I will. See you.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he did nod.

With her heart flying up in her throat, she got in and drove away. It wasn’t until she got home that she realized, she still didn’t know his first name.

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