Calhoun. Diana Palmer
Читать онлайн книгу.
her arm and began to caress it. “Nice. Come here and give old Tom a kiss….”
He pulled her toward him. She protested violently, and in the process managed to knock her drink over onto him. He cursed a blue streak and stood up, holding her by the wrist, homicide in his drunken eyes.
“You did that on purpose,” he shot at her. “You soaked me deliberately! Well, let me tell you, lady, no broad pours liquor on me and gets away with it!”
Abby felt even sicker. He was hurting her wrist, and there was a deathly hush around them. She knew that most people didn’t involve themselves in this kind of conflict. She couldn’t fight this man and win, but what else was she going to do? She wanted to cry.
“Let her go.”
The voice was deep, slow, dangerous and best of all, familiar. Abby caught her breath as a tall, heavily built blond man came toward her, his dark, deep-set eyes on the man who had Abby’s wrist. He was in a gray vested suit and a dressy cream-colored Stetson and boots, but Abby knew the trappings of civilized company wouldn’t save this ruddy cretin if he didn’t turn her loose. Abby had seen Calhoun lose his temper, and she knew how hard he could hit when he did.
“What’s she to you?” the drunken cowboy demanded.
“My ward.”
Calhoun caught the smaller man’s wrist in a hard, cruel grasp and twisted. The man groaned and went down, holding his hand and cursing.
“Hey, you can’t do that to Tom!” one of the man’s cronies protested, standing up. He was almost Calhoun’s size, and a lot rougher-looking.
“Want to make something out of it, sonny?” Calhoun asked in a soft drawl that was belied by the dark glitter in his eyes.
“You bet I do!”
The younger man threw a punch, but he was too slow. Calhoun’s big fists put him over a table. He reached down and picked up the Stetson that the man’s blow had connected with and looked around the room as he ran his fingers through his thick, silky blond hair.
“Anybody else?” he invited pleasantly.
Eyes turned the other way, and the band started playing again. Then Calhoun looked down at Abby.
She swallowed. “Hi,” she said, and tried to smile. “I thought you were out on a date.”
He didn’t say a word, but his glittering eyes told her every single thing he was feeling. He wouldn’t admit for a minute that his dinner date was strictly business, or that he’d expected something like this after the argument he and Abby had had. She was giving him fits, but he didn’t let his expression show how concerned he really was.
“Did you see Misty?” she asked hopefully.
“Luckily for her, no,” he said in a tone that could have boiled ice water. “Get your purse.”
She fumbled on the chair beside hers for it, weak and shaky. He had a gift for intimidating people, she thought, watching him slam his Stetson over his eyes at a slant. The men who were picking themselves up off the floor didn’t seem anxious to tangle with him twice. It was amazing, she thought, how unruffled he looked for a man who’d just been in a fight.
He caught her arm and propelled her out of the bar and into the night air. Misty and Ty were standing just outside, both looking faintly apprehensive.
“It wasn’t all my fault, Cal,” Misty began in a subdued tone.
Calhoun eyed her coldly. “You know what I think of this so-called friendship. And I know the reason behind it, even if she doesn’t.”
Abby was puzzled by that remark. The cold, level look in Calhoun’s dark eyes and the uncomfortable flush in Misty’s pretty face didn’t add up.
“I’d better go get Shelby,” Ty said quietly. “I was going to offer to take Abby home, but under the circumstances I’m a bit relieved that you came along,” he told Calhoun.
“If Justin finds out you were in the same room with her, there’ll be hell to pay,” Calhoun agreed. “But thanks all the same.” He turned Abby toward his Jaguar. “I assume you rode into town with your girlfriend?” he added.
“We came in Misty’s car,” Abby murmured. She felt weary and a little sick. Now she really looked like a child, with all the concerned adults making a fuss over her. Tears burned in her eyes, which she was careful to keep hidden from the angry man beside her.
“Honest to God,” he muttered as he put her into the passenger seat and went around to get into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you lately. Last night I find you in line at a male strip show, and tonight you’re getting drunk and eyeing strange men in bars!”
“I was not eyeing that lewd creature,” she said unsteadily. “And you can’t say I was dressed to invite his kind of comment. I’m not wearing anything that’s the least bit immodest!”
He glanced at her. “You were in a bar unescorted. That’s all the invitation that kind of man needs!”
She felt his gaze on her, but she wouldn’t look at him. She knew she’d cry if she did. She clasped her hands firmly in her lap and stared out the window instead as he started the car and headed for home.
It was a long ride, over deserted paved roads and dirt ones that led past the huge feedlot and then uphill to the house, which sat on a level plain about three miles away.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he asked stiffly as he helped her out of the car and she stumbled.
She pushed away from him as if she’d touched hot coals. “No, thank you.” He was making her more nervous than ever tonight. The scent of him filled her nostrils, all leathery and spicy and clean. She averted her eyes and walked as straight as she could toward the kitchen door. “Are you going to sneak me in the back way so that Justin doesn’t see me?” she challenged.
“Justin told me where to find you,” Calhoun said as he put the key in the lock and opened the back door. “He’s still watching his war movie.”
“Oh.” She walked through the door he was holding open for her. “I thought you were out on a date.”
“Never mind where I was,” he said curtly. “My God, I really must have radar.”
She flushed. Thank God he couldn’t see her face. She felt odd tonight. Frightened and nervous and a little unsure of herself. The gin had taken away some of her inhibitions, and she had to be careful not to let Calhoun see how vulnerable she felt when he came close to her.
She went in ahead of him, barely noticing the huge, spotless kitchen with its modern conveniences, or the hall, or the mahogany staircase she began to climb. Behind the closed living room door, bombs were going off in a softly muted way, indicating that Justin’s war movie was still running.
“Abby.”
She stopped, her back to him, trying not to show how nervous she felt. He was behind her, much too close, and she could smell the fresh, clean scent of his body and the spicy cologne he wore.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he asked.
His tone broke her heart. He used it with little things—a newborn kitten, or a filly he was working for the first time. He used it with children. He’d used it with Abby the day her mother had died in the wreck. It had been Calhoun who’d found her and broken the news to her and then held her while she cried. It was the tone he used when something was hurt.
She straightened, trying hard to keep her back straight and her legs under control. “That man…” she began, unable to tell him he was breaking her heart because he couldn’t love her.
“Damn that drunken—” He turned her, his strong hands gentle on her upper arms, his dark eyes blazing down into hers. He was so big, and none of it was fat. He was all muscle, lean and powerful, all man. “You’re