The Wedding In White. Diana Palmer
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Natalie’s little house was just on the outskirts of the Killain ranch, and she often complained that her yard was an afterthought. There was so little grass that she could use a Weed Eater for her yard work. One thing she did have was a fenced-in back yard with climbing roses everywhere. She loved to sit on the tiny patio and watch birds come and go at the small bird feeders hanging from every limb of her one tree—a tall cottonwood. Beyond her boundary, she could catch occasional glimpses of the red-coated Red Angus purebred cattle the Killains raised. The view outside was wonderful.
The view inside was another story. The kitchen had a stove and a refrigerator and a sink, not much else. The living-room-dining-room combination had a sofa and an easy chair—both second-hand—and a used Persian rug with holes. The bedroom had a single bed and a dresser, an old armchair and a straight chair. The porches were small and needed general repair. As homes went, it was hardly the American dream. But to Natalie, whose life had been spent in an orphanage, it was luxury to have her own space. Until her junior year, when she moved into her aunt’s house to become a companion/nurse/housekeeper for the two years until her aunt died suddenly, she’d never been by herself much.
She had one framed portrait of her parents and another of Vivian and Mack and Bob and Charles—a group shot of the four Killains that she’d taken herself at a barbecue Vivian had invited her to on the ranch. She picked up the picture frame and stared hard at the tallest man in the group. He was glaring at the camera, and she recalled amusedly that he’d been so busy giving her instructions on how to take the picture that she’d caught him with his mouth open.
He was like that everywhere. He knew how to do a lot of things very well, and he wasn’t shy with his advice. He’d walked right into the kitchen of a restaurant one memorable day and taught the haughty French chef how to make a proper barbecue sauce. Fortunately, the two of them had gone into the back alley before anything got broken.
She put the picture down and went to make herself a sandwich. Mack said she didn’t eat right, and she had to agree. She could cook, but it seemed such a waste of time to go to all that trouble just for herself. Besides, she was usually so tired when she got home from her student teaching that she didn’t have the energy to prepare a meal.
Ham, lettuce, cheese and mayonnaise on bread. All the essentials, she thought. She approved her latest effort before she ate it. Not bad for a single woman.
She turned on the small color television the Killains had given her last Christmas—a luxury she’d protested, for all the good it did her. The news was on, and as usual, it was all bad. She turned on an afternoon cartoon show instead. Marvin the Martian was much better company than anything going on in Washington, D.C.
When she finished her sandwich, she kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa with a cup of black coffee. There was nothing like having a real home, she thought, smiling as her eyes danced around the room. And today was Friday. She’d traded days with another checkout girl, so she had Friday and Saturday off from the grocery store she worked at part-time. The market was open on Sunday, but with a skeleton crew, and Natalie wasn’t scheduled for that day, either. It would be a dream of a weekend if she didn’t have to dress up and go over to the Killains’ for supper the following night. She hoped Vivian wasn’t serious about the young man she’d invited over. When Mack didn’t approve of people, they didn’t usually come back.
Natalie only had one good dress, a black crepe one with spaghetti straps, that fell in a straight line to her ankles. There was a lacy shawl she’d bought to go with it, and a plain little pair of sling-back pumps for her small feet. She used more makeup than usual and grimaced at her reflection. She still didn’t look her age. She could have passed for eighteen.
She got into her small used car and drove to the Killain ranch, approving the new paint job Mack’s men had given the fences around the sprawling Victorian home with its exquisite gingerbread woodwork and latticed porches. It could have slept ten visitors comfortably even before Mack added another wing to accommodate his young brothers’ desire for privacy. There was a matching garage out back where Mack kept his Lincoln and the big double-cabbed Dodge Ram truck he used on the ranch. There was a modern barn where the tractors and combine and other ranch equipment were kept, and an even bigger stable where Mack lodged his prize bulls. A separate stable housed the saddle horses. There was a tennis court, which was rarely used, and an Olympic-size indoor swimming pool and conservatory. The conservatory was Natalie’s favorite place when she visited. Mack grew many species of orchids there, and Natalie loved them as much as he did.
She expected Vivian to meet her at the foot of the steps, but Mack came himself. He was wearing a dark suit and he looked elegant and perturbed with his hands deep in his pockets as he waited for her to mount the staircase.
“Don’t you have another dress?” he asked irritably. “Every time you come over here, you wear that one.”
She lifted her chin haughtily. “I work six days a week to put myself through college, pay for gas and utilities and groceries. What’s left over wouldn’t buy a new piece of material for a mouse suit.”
“Excuses, excuses,” he murmured. His eyes narrowed on the low cleavage. “And I still don’t like that neckline,” he said shortly. “It shows too much of your breasts.”
She threw up both hands, almost flinging her small evening bag against the ceiling. “Listen, what’s this hang-up you have about my breasts lately?” she demanded.
He was frowning as he stared at her bodice. “You’re flaunting them.”
“I am not!”
“It’s all right to do it around me,” he continued flatly, “but I don’t want Vivian’s sex maniac boyfriend to start drooling over you at my supper table.”
“I don’t attract that sort of attention,” she muttered.
“With a body like that, you’d attract attention from a dead man,” he said shortly. “Just looking at you makes me ache.”
She didn’t have a comeback. He’d taken the sense right out of her head with that typically blunt remark.
“No sassy reply?” he taunted.
Her eyes ran over him in the becoming suit. “You don’t look like a man with an ache.”
“How would you know?” he asked. “You don’t even understand what an ache is.”
She frowned. “You’re very difficult to understand.”
“It wouldn’t take an experienced woman five seconds to know what I meant,” he told her. “You’re not only repressed, you’re blind.”
Both eyebrows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
He let out an angry breath. “Oh, hell, forget it.” He turned on his heel. “Are you coming in or not?”
“You’re testy as all get out tonight,” she murmured dryly, following him. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t Glenna get rid of that…ache?”
He stopped and she cannoned into his back, almost tripping in the process. He spun around and caught her by the waist, jerking her right against him. He held her there, and one lean hand went to the small of her back and ground her hips deliberately into his.
He held her gaze while his body tautened and swelled blatantly against her stomach. “Glenna can’t get rid of it because she doesn’t cause it,” he said with undeniable mockery.
“McKinzey Donald Killain!” she gasped, outraged.
“Are you shocked?” he asked quietly.
She tried to move back, but his hand contracted and he groaned sharply, so she stood very still in the sensual embrace.
“Does it hurt you?” she whispered huskily.
His breathing was ragged. “When you move,” he agreed, a ripple running through his powerful frame.
She stared at him curiously, her body