Diana Palmer Texan Lovers. Diana Palmer
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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 all right,” he said softly. “Nothing happened.”
“Of course not,” she whispered miserably. “You rescued me. You always rescue me.” Her eyes closed, and a tear started down her cheek. “But hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m always going to land in trouble if you don’t let me solve my own problems?” She looked up at him through a mist. “You have to let go of me,” she whispered huskily, and her eyes reflected her heartbreak. “You have to, Calhoun.”
There was a lot of truth in what she said, and he didn’t really know how to respond. He worried about her. This strange restlessness of hers, this urge to run from him, wasn’t like Abby. She was melancholy, when for the past five years or more she’d been a vibrant, happy little imp, always laughing and playing with him, teasing him, making him laugh. She couldn’t know how somber the house had been when she’d first come to live with him and Justin. Justin never laughed anyway, and Calhoun had come to be like him. But Abby had brought the sunshine. She’d colored the world. He scowled down at her, wondering how she did it. She wasn’t pretty. She was plain, and she was serious a good bit of the time. But when she laughed…When she laughed, she was beautiful.
His hands contracted. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d go to conventional places,” he muttered. “First I catch you in line to watch a bunch of nude men parade around a stage, and the very next night you’re drinking gin and tonic in a bar. Why?” he asked, his deep voice soft with curiosity and concern.
She shifted. “I’m just curious about those things,” she said finally.
He searched her eyes quietly. “That isn’t it,” he replied, his own gaze narrowing. His hands shifted, gentle on her arms, Abby could feel their warmth through the fabric. “Something’s eating you alive. Can’t you tell me what it is?”
She drew in her breath. She’d almost forgotten how perceptive he was. He seemed to see right through to the bone and blood sometimes. She let her gaze drop to his chest, and she watched its lazy rise and fall under his gray vest. He was hairy under his shirt. She’d seen him once in a while on his way to or from the shower, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and run her hands over him. He had thick brown hair across his tanned chest, and it had golden tips where it curled. There was a little wave in his thick blond hair, not much, but enough that it was unruly around his ears. She let her gaze go up, feeding on him, lingering just above his dimpled chin at the thin but sensuous curve of his upper lip and the faintly square, chiseled fullness of his lower lip. He had a sexy mouth. His nose was sexy, too. Very straight and imposing. He had high cheekbones, and thick eyebrows on a jutting brow that shadowed his deep-set eyes. He had black eyes. Both the Ballengers did. But Calhoun was something to look at, and poor old Justin was as rangy-looking as a longhorn bull by comparison.
“Abby, are you listening to me?” Calhoun murmured, shaking her gently because her faintly intoxicated stare was setting his blood on fire.
Her eyes levered up to his, finding darkness in them, secrets, shadows. Her lips parted on a hopeless sigh. When Misty had told her last week about seeing him with some ravishing blonde up in Houston, it had knocked her for a loop, bringing home the true hopelessness of her situation. Calhoun liked sophisticated women. He’d never look twice at drab little Abby. Once Abby had faced that unpalatable fact, she’d been on a one-way road to misery. She’d been looking for an escape, last night and tonight, but she couldn’t find one. Wherever she