The Cowboy and the Lady. Diana Palmer
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black hair was loose and curling around her ears, her dark eyes snapping, her olive complexion absolutely stunning against the blood red lipstick she wore.
“Wow,” Terry managed in a bare whisper, his eyes bulging at the vision in the doorway.
Tess accepted the male adulation as her due, gazing at Terry’s thin, lackluster person dismissively. Her sharp eyes darted to Amanda, and she eyed the other girl’s smart but businesslike suit with distaste.
“Jace is out looking at a new harvester with Bill Johnson,” Tess said casually. “The old one they use on the bottoms broke down this morning.”
“Bogged down in the hay, I reckon,” Marguerite joked, knowing full well there wasn’t enough moisture to bog anything down. “Has he stopped swearing yet?”
Tess didn’t smile. “Naturally, it disturbed him. It’s a very expensive piece of equipment. He asked me to stop by and tell you he’d be late.”
“When has he ever been on time for a meal?” Marguerite asked curtly.
Tess turned away. “I’ve got to rush. Dad’s waiting for me. Some business about selling one of the developments.” She glanced back at Terry and Amanda. “I hear Duncan is thinking about hiring your agency to handle our Florida project. Dad and I want to be in on any discussions you have, naturally, since we do have a rather large sum invested.”
“Of course,” Terry said, reddening.
“We’ll be in touch. ‘Night, Marguerite,” she called back carelessly. Her high heels beat a quick tattoo on the wood floor. Then the door slammed shut behind her and there was a conspicuous silence in the room.
Marguerite’s dark eyes flashed fire. “And when did I give her permission to call me by my first name?”
Terry looked down at his shoes. “Snags,” he murmured. “I should have known it seemed too easy.”
“Don’t fret,” Amanda said cheerfully. “Mr. Anderson isn’t at all like his daughter.”
Terry brightened a little, but Marguerite was still muttering to herself as she left the room to tell Maria to bring coffee to the living room.
Maria brought the coffee on an enormous silver tray with an antique silver service and thin bone china cups in a burgundy and white pattern.
While Marguerite poured, Amanda studied the contents of the elegant display case against one wall. Inside, it was like a miniature museum of Western history. There was a .44 Navy Colt, a worn gunbelt that Jace’s great uncle had worn on trail drives, a Comanche knife in an aging buckskin sheath decorated with faded beads, some of which were missing, and other mementos of an age long past. There was an old family Bible that Jace’s people had brought all the way from Georgia by wagon train, and a Confederate pistol and officer’s hat. There was even a peace pipe.
“Never get tired of looking at it, do you?” Marguerite asked gently.
She turned with a smile. “Not ever.”
“Your people had a proud history, too,” Marguerite said. “Did you manage to hold on to any of those French chairs and silver?”
Amanda shook her head. “Only the small things, I’m afraid.” She sighed, feeling a great sense of loss. “There simply wasn’t any place to keep them, except in storage, and they were worth so much money…it took quite a lot to pay the bills,” she added sorrowfully.
Terry caught the look on her face and turned to Marguerite. “Tell me about the house,” he said, frowning interestedly.
That caught the older woman’s attention immediately, and an hour later she was still reciting tidbits from the past.
Amanda had been lulled into a sense of security, listening to her, and there was a quiet, wistful smile on her lovely face when the front door suddenly swung open. As she looked toward the doorway, she found her eyes caught and held by a pair almost the exact color of the antique silver service. Jace!
Chapter Three
Jason Everett Whitehall was the image of his late father. Tall and powerful, with eyes like polished silver in a darkly tanned face and a shock of coal-black hair, he would have drawn eyes anywhere. The patterned Western shirt he was wearing emphasized his broad shoulders just as the wellcut denim jeans hugged the lines of his muscular thighs and narrow hips. His expensive leather boots were dusty, but obviously meant for dress. The only disreputable note in his outfit was the worn black Stetson he held in his hand, just as battered now as it had been on Amanda’s last unforgettable visit.
She couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. They traced the hard lines of his face involuntarily, and she wondered now, as she had in her adolescence, if there was a trace of emotion in him. He seemed so completely removed from warmth or passion.
He was pleasant enough to Terry as he entered the room, shaking hands, making brief, polite work of the greetings.
“You know my junior partner, of course.” Terry grinned, gesturing toward Amanda on the sofa beside him.
“I know her,” Jace said in his deep, slow drawl, shooting her a hard glance that barely touched the slender curves of her body, curves that were only emphasized by the classical cut of her navy blue suit.
“We’re not going to have much time to talk tonight,” he told Terry without preamble. “I’ve got a long-standing date. But Duncan should be back tomorrow, and I’ll try to find a few minutes later in the week to go over the whole proposal with you. You can give me the basics over supper.”
“Fine!” Terry said. He was immediately charming and pleasant, and Amanda couldn’t repress an amused smile, watching him. He was so obvious when he was trying to curry favor.
“How’s your mother?” Jace asked Amanda curtly as he went to the bar to pour drinks.
Amanda felt her spine going rigid. “Very well, thanks,” she said.
“Who is she imposing on this month?” he continued casually.
“Jason!” Marguerite burst out, horrified. She turned to her guests. “Amanda, wouldn’t you like to freshen up? And, Terry, if you’ll come along, I’ll show you to your room at the same time.” She herded them out of the room quickly, shooting a furious glance at her impassive son on the way.
“I don’t know what in the world’s wrong with him,” Marguerite grumbled when she and Amanda were alone in the deliciously feminine blue wallpapered guest room. The pretty quilted blue bedspread was complemented by ruffled pillow shams and green plants grew lushly in attractive brass planters.
“He’s just being himself,” Amanda said with more humor than she felt. The words had hurt, as Jace meant them to. “I can’t remember a time in my life when he hasn’t cut at me.”
Marguerite looked into the warm brown eyes and smiled, too. “That’s my girl. Just ignore him.”
“Oh, how can I?” Amanda asked, dramatically batting her long eyelashes. “He’s so devastating, so masculine, so…manly.”
Marguerite giggled like a young girl. She sat down on the edge of the thick quilted coverlet on the bed and folded her hands primly in her lap while Amanda hung up her few, painstakingly chosen business clothes. “You’re the only woman I know who doesn’t chase him mercilessly,” she pointed out. “He’s considered quite a catch, you know.”
“If I caught him, I’d throw him right back,” Amanda said, unruffled. “He’s too aggressively masculine to suit me, too domineering. I’m a little afraid of him, I think,” she admitted honestly.
“Yes, I know,” the older woman replied kindly.
“Tess isn’t, though.” She sighed.