Diana Palmer - Undaunted

She didn’t say a word.

“I’ve always been careful,” he said through his teeth. “Always prepared. They said they were using birth control, but I never believed it. All my adult life, I’ve dodged women trying to trap me into marriage. All I wanted was brief affairs. They wanted forever. There is no forever!” he ground out. “Only damned fools believe there is!”

She was almost shivering now. The force of his rage was intimidating, even when he was sightless.

“And you put her through,” he added, looking toward where he thought she might be. “You put her right through to me without asking if I wanted to talk to her. By God, you do that again, and I’ll throw you out on the front lawn in your damned nightgown!”

She fought back tears.

“Do you understand? Talk to me!”

“I understand, Mr. Sinclair,” she said shakily.

“Good!”

She tried to type, but her hands were shaking too hard.

“Get me some coffee,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.” She got up from her chair, still wobbly. Her voice had sounded shaky.

“Emma!”

She stopped. “Yes, s-sir?” she stammered.

He hesitated. Frowned. “Emma, come here,” he said in a tone like velvet, soft and gentle. “Come on.”

She went to him slowly, disturbed and shivering.

He felt for her shoulder and pulled her suddenly right into his arms, folding her close to that warm, magnificent strength. She laid her cheek against his chest and the tears stained the fabric.

“You’re crying,” he chided. “Come on, Emma, I’m not an ogre.”

“Yes, you are,” she said through tears. “You’re scary like one.”

“So people tell me.” He kissed her hair. She made him feel guilty. It had been ages since a woman had accomplished that. “Come on. Stop crying. I won’t yell anymore.”

“I didn’t know who she was,” she sobbed.

He held her closer, burying his face in her throat, petting the soft, long hair that ran down her shoulders. Then his big hands smoothed gently along her spine. “I didn’t realize that.” His mouth moved on her neck.

She gasped. Her heart raced. This close to him, she was feeling odd sensations, ripples of pleasure that she’d never experienced, not even with Steven. This man had a sensual magnetism that was uniquely his.

“You like this,” he teased.

“Mr. Sinclair...” she protested.

He laughed, deep in his throat.

“I have to go...”

His cheek slid against hers. “Do you?” he whispered as his mouth moved close to hers, hovered over it.

“I should...” she choked.

“Should you?” he whispered.

She didn’t know what to do. There had only been Steven in her life, and he’d barely touched her. Theirs had been a cerebral sort of relationship until he found out what her father did for a living and dumped her. She had no experience at all with the sort of flirting Connor was subjecting her to. She stiffened in his arms.

He drew back, his eyes narrowed. He wished that he could see her face. Her young body was stiff as a board. But her breath was fluttering at his collarbone. He could feel her heart beating like a butterfly. She was attracted to him. Very attracted, by the feel of her. But she was also frightened.

He frowned. “What are you afraid of, Emma?” he whispered.

Both her hands pressed against his broad chest, feeling the hard, warm muscle under his shirt. “Please,” she faltered.

He let her go. He didn’t seem to be angry anymore. He looked more puzzled than anything else.

She almost ran out of the room. But she didn’t. She stood her ground. And went back to her desk.

Three

Emma took dictation on a letter he was writing to his attorney. She was barely aware of what she was writing down. It had upset her, that blatant, unbridled anger. But what had followed it had upset her even more.

She was vulnerable with him. It was surprising, because he was so much older than she was, almost a generation. But when he touched her, the years fell away. She felt far different with him than she’d ever felt with Steven, and it scared her.

She tried to tell herself that he was just very experienced with women. That was what it was. But there had to be an attraction in the first place. He’d been amused by her reactions, but then he’d gone silent. He was still silent, in between dictation. He was frowning, as if he was worrying a puzzle in his mind.

“Read that back,” he said when he finished dictating.

She read the letter to him.

He drew in an irritated breath and ran a restless hand through his thick, wavy hair. “I hate not being able to read my own damned letters,” he muttered.

“It will get easier as you go along,” she said quietly.

His head lifted and turned, as if he was trying to see where she was. “Do you think so?” he asked with a rough laugh. “I very much doubt it.”

“We all have trials in life,” she said simply. “We get through them. Everything passes away—grief, anger, hope, joy, all of it. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”

“What have you gotten through? Are you even old enough to have had trials at all?”

She started to tell him about her father, then quickly bit her tongue. There were going to be pitfalls, working for him. Here was one of the biggest. She remembered telling him, when he was sighted, about Dolores, and her father, and the boy who’d broken their engagement when he found out her father ran beef cattle.

“We all have trials,” she replied.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

She knew she’d never told him that. She doubted that Mamie had, or that he would have bothered to ask. “I’m twenty-three,” she said softly.

“Twenty-three.” His face was impassive. His eyes were narrow. His lips compressed. “Twenty-three.”

She couldn’t see into his mind or she might have been surprised at why he reacted that way to her age. He was seeing doors closing. She was twenty-three. He was thirty-eight. Her life was beginning. He was approaching the middle of his. Even if he’d been interested—and he was—her age put him off.

He leaned back in his chair and drew in a long breath. “My brother died on this lake,” he said abruptly.

“Your brother?”

“He and his wife were on a houseboat. There was a party. It was late on a Friday night. A couple of teenagers in a motorboat came flying around one of the coves and hit it broadside. My brother and his wife drowned in the time it took rescue people to get here and start looking for them.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said as she understood, too well, too late, his overreaction to her speeding in Mamie’s boat.

“He was the last living relative I had,” he replied. “We were close.” He glanced her way. “Do you have family, Emma?”

She hesitated. “Yes. My father lives on a small farm in North Carolina.” There was no reason for him to check that out, after all.

“Are you close?”

“Not so much. He’s very independent. But my mother and I were. She was very sweet and gentle.”

“How did she die?”

She swallowed. “She died in childbirth.”

A shadow passed over his broad face. “Unusual, isn’t it, in this day and age? Any decent obstetrician should be able to call in specialists if there are problems.”

“She was in labor for a long time and she had a hidden heart condition. She died of a heart attack.”

“I see. And the child?”

“A little girl. She was stillborn. They said she’d been dead for several days. They couldn’t save her.” That wasn’t the whole truth. She wasn’t telling him that her father had let her mother lie in childbirth for two horrible days, or that she’d died, ironically, while he was delivering a calf out in the pasture several miles from the house. By the time he finally got home to a sobbing Emma and a still, cold wife, it was too late to save her.