Harden. Diana Palmer
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Harden held out his hand and she put the phone into it, aware of the mocking, amused look on his hard face.
She moved toward the breakfast trolley, absently aware of the abrupt, quiet explanation he was giving her brother. She wondered if he was always so cool and in control, and reasoned that he probably was. She lifted the lid off one of the dishes and sniffed the delicious bacon. He’d ordered breakfast for two, and she was aware of a needling hunger.
“He wants to talk to you,” Harden said, holding out the phone.
She took it. “Sam?” she began hesitantly.
“It’s all right,” he replied, pacified. “You’re apparently in good hands. Just pure luck, of course,” he added angrily. “You can’t pull a stunt like that again. I’ll have a heart attack.”
“I won’t. I promise,” she said. “No more office parties. I’m off them for life.”
“Good. Call me tonight.”
“I will. Bye.”
She hung up and smiled at Harden. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. “Sit down and eat. I’ve got a workshop at eleven for the cattlemen’s conference. I’ll drop you off at your place first.”
She vaguely remembered the sign she’d seen on the way into the hotel about a beef producers seminar. “Isn’t the conference here?” she stammered.
“Sure. But I’ll drop you off anyway.”
“I don’t know quite how to thank you,” she began, her silver eyes soft and shy.
He searched her face for a long, long moment before he was able to drag his eyes back to his plate. “I don’t care much for women, Miranda,” he said tersely. “So call this a momentary aberration. But next time, don’t put yourself in that kind of vulnerable situation. I didn’t take advantage. Most other men would have.”
She knew that already. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe, darting curious glances at him. “Why don’t you like women?”
His dark eyebrows clashed and he stared at her with hard eyes.
“It won’t do any good to glower at me,” she said gently. “I’m not intimidated. Won’t you tell me?”
He laughed without humor. “Brave this morning, aren’t we?”
“I’m sober,” she replied. “And you shouldn’t carry people home with you if you don’t want them to ask questions.”
“I’ll remember that next time,” he assured her as he lifted his fork.
“Why?” she persisted.
“I’m illegitimate.”
She didn’t flinch or look shocked. She sipped her coffee. “Your mother wasn’t married to your father.” She nodded.
He scowled. “My mother had a flaming affair and I was the result. Her husband took her back. I have three brothers who are her husband’s children. I’m not.”
“Was your stepfather cruel to you?” she asked gently.
He shifted restlessly. “No,” he said reluctantly.
“Were you treated differently from the other boys?”
“No. Look,” he said irritably, “why don’t you eat your breakfast?”
“Doesn’t your mother love you?”
“Yes, my mother loves me!”
“No need to shout, Mr. Tremayne.” She grimaced, holding one ear. “I have perfect hearing.”
“What business of yours is my life?” he demanded.
“You saved mine,” she reminded him. “Now you’re responsible for me for the rest of yours.”
“I am not,” he said icily.
She wondered at her own courage, because he looked much more intimidating in the light than he had the night before. He made her feel alive and safe and cosseted. Ordinarily she was a spirited, independent woman, but the trauma of the accident and the loss of the baby had wrung the spirit out of her. Now it was beginning to come back. All because of this tall, angry stranger who’d jerked her from what he’d thought were the waiting jaws of death. Actually jumping had been the very last thing in her mind on that bridge last night. It had been nausea that had her hanging over it, but it had passed by the time he reached her.
“Are you always so hard to get along with?” she asked pleasantly.
His pale blue eyes narrowed. Of course he was, but he didn’t like hearing it from her. She confused him. He turned back to his food. “You’d better eat.”
“The sooner I finish, the sooner I’m out of your hair?” she mused.
“Right.”
She shrugged and finished her breakfast, washing it down with the last of her coffee. She didn’t want to go. Odd, when he was so obviously impatient to be rid of her. He was like a security blanket that she’d just found, and already she was losing it. He gave her peace, made her feel whole again. The thought of being without him made her panicky.
Harden was feeling something similar. He, who’d sworn that never again would he give his heart, was experiencing a protective instinct he hadn’t been aware he had. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. He didn’t like it, either.
“If you’re finished, we’ll go,” he said tersely, rising to dig into his pocket for his car keys.
She left the last sip of coffee in the immaculate china cup and got to her feet, retrieving her small purse from the couch. She probably looked like a shipwreck survivor, she thought as she followed him to the door, and God knew what people would think when they saw her come downstairs in the clothes she’d worn the night before. How ridiculous, she chided herself. They’d think the obvious thing, of course. That she’d slept with him. She flushed as they went down in the elevator, hoping that he wouldn’t see the expression on her face.
He didn’t. He was much too busy cursing himself for being in that bar the night before. The elevator stopped and he stood aside to let her out.
It was unfortunate that his brother Evan had decided to fly up early for the workshop Harden was conducting on new beef production methods. It was even more unfortunate that Evan should be standing in front of the elevator when Harden and Miranda got off it.
“Oh, God,” Harden ground out.
Evan’s brown eyebrows went straight up and his dark eyes threatened to pop. “Harden?” he asked, leaning forward as if he wasn’t really sure that this was his half brother.
Harden’s blue eyes narrowed threateningly, and a dark flush spread over his cheekbones. Instinctively he took Miranda’s arm.
“Excuse me. We’re late,” he told Evan, his eyes threatening all kinds of retribution.
Evan grinned, white teeth in a swarthy face flashing mischievously. “You aren’t going to introduce me?” he asked.
“I’m Miranda Warren,” Miranda said gently, smiling at him over Harden’s arm.
“I’m Evan Tremayne,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Go home,” Harden told Evan curtly.
“I will not,” Evan said indignantly, towering over both of them. “I came to hear you tell people how to make more money raising beef.”
“You heard me at the supper table last month—just before you volunteered me for this damned workshop!” he reminded the other man. “Why did you have to come to Chicago to hear it again?”
“I like Chicago.” He pursed