Heather's Song. Diana Palmer
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even harder. He looked up as the first drops of rain burst out of the sky and said something to his men. Then he slammed his hat down over his eyes at its usual arrogant slant and started toward her, stripping off the batwing chaps as he walked. He held them over one arm and caught her around the waist with the other, herding her toward the nearby barn as the sky opened up and dumped a spray of liquid bullets onto them.
“You can’t afford a chill right now,” he shot at her. “Run, girl!”
She raced beside him, exhilarated even as his long legs easily outdistanced her. When they reached the barn, her face was flushed, her eyes laughing, her hair in a glorious tumble. Inside, two rows of neat stalls were separated by a long aisle filled with fresh honey-colored wood shavings that made a cushion on the hard ground. She pushed her hair out of her blue eyes and laughed up at Cole as they stood by the door, watching the cold rain pelt down on the paddocks between the barn and the house.
His eyes flicked over her and moved away, back to the rain. He tossed the chaps and his hat aside, idly reaching in his pocket for a cigarette. She watched him light it, her eyes drawn to his strong, tanned fingers as they worked the lighter. The nails were flat and clean, despite the manual labor he occasionally engaged in.
“I didn’t know you still rode broncs,” she said, breaking the tense silence.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he replied without looking at her. He leaned against the barn wall and stared out at the rain with narrowed gray eyes.
That was true. Cole had always been something of a mystery: a secretive, very private person who allowed no one, not even his stepsister, too close.
“Cole, what have I done?” she asked suddenly, unable to bear his coolness a second longer.
He still didn’t look at her. “What makes you think you’ve done anything?”
She lowered her eyes to the ground and moved the wood shavings around lightly with the toe of her boot. “I don’t know…you’re very distant with me lately.”
He laughed mirthlessly, with a sound that was as harsh as the rapping of the rain on the roof or the rumble of thunder.
“Don’t laugh,” she murmured. “We were always close, even when we argued. But it’s all changed now, and I don’t understand why.”
He took a long draw from the cigarette. The howl of the wind echoed through the cozy warmth of the barn; the thunder made the ground shiver. Without warning, his eyes came around to pierce hers, and the intensity of his gaze made her want to back away. “You made the choice, not me,” he said roughly.
She blinked at him. “What choice?”
“To turn your back on your family and carve out a career for yourself,” he said coldly.
She felt shivers run down her arms and she averted her eyes. “You’ll never forgive me for that, will you? It was the first time in my life I ever went against you, and you’ll die remembering.” She shook back her hair angrily. “I worshiped you, Cole!” she threw at him, her eyes half-hurt, half-angry.
His jaw went taut. “When will you understand that I don’t want hero worship from you?” he shot at her.
Her lower lip pouted at him. “What do you want?” she challenged.
He threw the cigarette outside into the rain and moved toward her before she could read the intent in his glittering eyes. She shrank back against the rough boards as he propped his lean, brown hands on the wall on either side of her head and eased his body completely down against hers, pinning her there in a silence that burned with emotion. She felt his chest, warm and hard through the layers of clothing, pressing against her soft breasts, his flat stomach and powerful legs in intimate contact with her own.
“Let me show you what I want,” he growled, and what she read in his eyes made her pulse run wild with frightened anticipation.
“Cole…you can’t!” she whispered shakily, her eyes wide and bright.
His eyes dropped to her soft mouth. “Why can’t I?” he challenged. “You’ve done everything but go down on your knees and beg me for it since you came out of the hospital.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, and his dark head bent swiftly. He caught her parted lips with his own, and she felt their rough, demanding warmth for the first time. Her body went rigid as he twisted her lips roughly under his, not a trace of gentleness in him. He was angry and the kiss was the medium of that anger. She moaned weakly under the painful crush of his mouth, his body.
He drew back, breathing hard, his eyes blazing straight into hers from a distance of inches. He studied her tear-bright eyes mercilessly. “How does it feel?” he demanded gruffly.
Her lips trembled. “I…I don’t know,” she whispered, shaken by the close contact with his powerful, hard-muscled body, by the scent of tobacco and oriental cologne that clung to him, by the lingering taste of his mouth.
“You wanted it,” he accused, something violent in the flash of his eyes.
Her breath caught on a sob. “Not anymore,” she got out. “Please let me go.”
He hesitated an instant before he shoved himself away from her and stepped back. His eyes surveyed the damage, the tears shining beneath her eyelashes, the sudden pallor of her face. Then she darted out the door into the storm, oblivious to the driving rain that drenched her before she reached the safety of the house. She was equally oblivious to the narrowed gray eyes that watched her every step of the way.
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