Heartbreaker (5 page)

He kissed her with shattering absorption, as
if he couldn't get enough of her. Even the dim thought that he must have practised
his technique with hundreds of women didn't lessen its power. She was utterly
wrapped around by him, overwhelmed by his touch and scent and taste, her body
tingling and aching with both pleasure and the need to have more of him. She
wanted him; she'd always wanted him. He'd been an obsession with her from the
moment she had seen him, and she'd spent most of the past ten years running
from the power of that obsession, only to wind up practically at his mercy
anyway—if he had any mercy.

He lifted his head in slow motion, his dark
eyes heavy lidded, his mouth moist from kissing her. Blatant satisfaction was
written across his hard face as he surveyed her. She was lying limply against
him, her face dazed with pure want, her lips red and swollen. Very gently he
put her away from him, holding her with his hands on her waist until she was
steady on her feet; then he got to his own feet.

As always when he towered over her, Michelle
automatically retreated a step. Frantically she searched for control, for something
to say to him to deny the response she'd just given him, but what could she say
that he'd believe? She couldn't have been more obvious! But then, neither could
he. It was useless to try to regain lost ground, and she wasn't going to waste
time trying. All she could do was try to put a halt to things now.

Her face was pale as she faced him, her hands
twisted together in a tight knot. "I won't sleep with you to pay that
debt, no matter what you decide. Did you come here tonight expecting to whisk
me straight up to bed, assuming that I'd choose to turn whore for you?"

He eyed her sharply. "The thought
crossed my mind. I was willing."

"Well, I'm not!" Breath rushed
swiftly in and out of her lungs as she tried to control the outrage that burned
in her at the insult. She had to control it; she couldn't afford to fall apart
now.

"I'm glad, because I've changed my
mind," he said lazily.

"Gosh, that's big of you!" she
snapped.

"You'll go to bed with me, all right,
but it won't be because of any money you owe me. When the time comes, you'll
spread your legs for me because you want me just the way I want you."

The way he was looking at her made her
shiver, and the image his rough words provoked shot through her brain like
lightning. He would use her up and toss her away, just as he had all those
other women, if she let him get too close to her. ''Thanks, but no thanks. I've
never gone in for group sex, and that's what it would be like with you!"

She wanted to make him angry, but instead he
cupped her knotted-up hands in his palm and lightly rubbed his thumb over her
knuckles. "Don't worry, I can guarantee there'll just be the two of us
between the sheets. Settle down and get used to the idea. I'll be back out
tomorrow to look over the ranch and see what needs to be done—"

"No," she interrupted fiercely,
jerking her hands from his grip. "The ranch is mine. I can handle it on my
own."

"Honey, you've never even handled a
checkbook on your own. Don't worry about it; I'll take care of
everything."

His amused dismissal set her teeth on edge,
more because of her own fear that he was right than anything else. "I
don't want you to take care of everything!"

"You don't know what you want," he
replied, leaning down to kiss her briefly on the mouth. "I'll see you
tomorrow."

Just like that he turned and walked out of
the room, and after a moment Michelle realized he was leaving. She ran after
him and reached the front door in time to see him sprinting through the
downpour to his truck.

He didn't take her seriously. Well, why
should he? Michelle thought bitterly. No one else ever had, either. She leaned
on the doorframe and watched him drive away; her shaky legs needed the extra
support. Why now? For years she'd kept him at a distance with her carefully
manufactured hostility, but all of a sudden her protective barrier had
shattered. Like a predator, he'd sensed her vulnerability and moved in for the
kill.

Quietly she closed the door, shutting out the
sound of rain. The silent house enclosed her, an empty reminder of the shambles
of her life.

Her jaw clenched as she ground her teeth
together, but she didn't cry. Her eyes remained dry. She couldn't afford to
waste her time or strength indulging in useless tears. Somehow she had to hold
on to the ranch, repay that debt, and hold off John Rafferty…

The last would be the hardest of all, because
she'd be fighting against herself. She didn't want to hold him off; she wanted
to creep into his iron-muscled arms and feel them close around her. She wanted
to feed her hunger for him, touch him as she'd never allowed herself to do,
immerse herself in the man. Guilt arose in her throat, almost choking her.
She'd married another man wanting John, loving John,
obsessed
with
John; somehow Roger, her ex-husband, had sensed it, and his jealousy had turned
their marriage into a nightmare.

Her mind burned with the memories, and to
distract herself she walked briskly into the kitchen and prepared dinner for
one; in this case, a bowl of cornflakes in milk. It was also what she'd had for
breakfast, but her nerves were too raw to permit any serious cooking. She was
actually able to eat half of the bowlful of cereal before she suddenly dropped
the spoon and buried her face in her hands.

All her life she'd been a princess, the
darling, pampered apple of her parents' eyes, born to them when they were both
nearing forty and had given up hope of ever having children. Her mother had
been a gentle, vague person who had passed straight from her father's keeping
into that of her husband, and thought that a woman's role in life was to
provide a comfortable, loving home for her husband, who supported her. It
wasn't an unusual outlook for her generation, and Michelle didn't fault her
mother for it. Langley Cabot had protected and spoiled both his wife and his
daughter; that was the way life was supposed to be, and it was a source of
pride to him that he supported them very well indeed. When her mother died,
Michelle had become the recipient of all that protective devotion.
Langley
had wanted her to have the best of everything; he had
wanted her to be happy, and to his way of thinking he had failed as a father
and provider if she weren't.

In those days Michelle had been content to
let her father shower her with gifts and luxuries. Her life had been humming
along just as she had always expected, until the day
Langley
had turned her world upside down by selling the
Connecticut
house where she'd grown up, and moved her down to a
cattle ranch in central
Florida
,
not far from the Gulf coast. For the first time in her life,
Langley
had been unmoved by her pleas. The cattle ranch was
his dream come true, the answer to some deeply buried need in him that had been
hidden under silk shirts, pin-striped suits and business appointments. Because
he'd wanted it so badly, he had ignored Michelle's tears and tantrums and
jovially assured her that before long she'd have new friends and would love the
ranch as much as he did.

In that, he was partially right. She made new
friends, gradually became accustomed to the heat, and even enjoyed life on a
working cattle ranch.
Langley
had completely remodeled the old ranch house when
he'd bought it, to ensure that his beloved daughter wasn't deprived in any way
of the comfort she was accustomed to. So she'd adjusted, and even gone out of
her way to assure him of her contentment. He deserved his dream, and she had
felt ashamed that she'd tried to talk him out of it. He did so much to make her
happy, the least she could do was return as much of the effort as she could.

Then she'd met John Rafferty. She couldn't
believe that she'd spent ten years running from him, but it was true. She'd
hated him and feared him and loved him all at once, with a teenager's wildly
passionate obsession, but she had always seen one thing very clearly: he was
more than she could handle. She had never daydreamed of being the one woman who
could tame the rake; she was far too vulnerable to him, and he was too strong.
He might take her and use her, but she wasn't woman enough to hold him. She was
spoiled and pampered; he didn't even like her. In self-defense, she had devoted
herself to making him dislike her even more to make certain he never made a
move on her.

She had gone to an exclusive women's college
back east, and after graduation had spent a couple of weeks with a friend who
lived in
Philadelphia
. During that visit she'd met Roger Beckman, scion of
one of the oldest and richest families in town. He was tall and black haired,
and he even had a trim mustache. His resemblance to John was slight, except for
those points, and Michelle couldn't say that she had consciously married Roger
because he reminded her of John, but she was very much afraid that
subconsciously she had done exactly that.

Roger was a lot of fun. He had a lazy manner
about him, his eyes wrinkled at the edges from smiling so much, and he loved
organized crazy games, like scavenger hunts. In his company Michelle could
forget about John and simply have fun. She was genuinely fond of Roger, and
came to love him as much as she would ever love any man who wasn't John
Rafferty. The best thing she could do was forget about John, put him behind
her, and get on with her life. After all, there had never been anything between
them except her own fantasies, and Roger absolutely adored her. So she had
married him, to the delight of both her father and his parents.

It was a mistake that had almost cost her her
life.

At first everything had been fine. Then Roger
had begun to show signs of jealousy whenever Michelle was friendly to another
man. Had he sensed that she didn't love him as she should? That he owned only
the most superficial part of her heart? Guilt ate at her even now, because
Roger's jealousy hadn't been groundless. He hadn't been able to find the true
target, so he'd lashed out whenever she smiled at any man, danced with any man.

The scenes had gotten worse, and one night
he'd actually slapped her during a screaming fight after a party; she'd made
the mistake of speaking to the same man twice while they raided the buffet
table. Shocked, her face burning, Michelle had stared at her husband's twisted
features and realized that his jealousy had driven him out of control. For the
first time, she was afraid of him.

His action had shocked Roger, too, and he'd
buried his face in her lap, clinging to her as he wept and begged her
forgiveness. He'd sworn never to hurt her again; he'd said he would rather cut
off his own hands than hurt her. Shaken to the core, Michelle did what
thousands of women did when their husbands turned on them: she forgave him.

But it wasn't the last time. Instead, it got
worse.

Michelle had been too ashamed and shocked to
tell anyone, but finally she couldn't take any more and pressed charges against
him. To her horror, his parents quietly bought off everyone involved, and
Michelle was left without a legal leg to stand on, all evidence destroyed. Come
hell or high water, the Beckmans would protect their son.

Finally she tried to leave him, but she had
gotten no further than
Baltimore
before he caught up with her, his face livid with
rage. It was then that Michelle realized he wasn't quite sane; his jealousy had
pushed him over the edge. Holding her arm in a grip that left bruises for two
weeks, he made the threat that kept her with him for the next two years: if she
left him again, he'd have her father killed.

She hadn't doubted him, nor did she doubt
that he'd get away with it; he was too well protected by his family's money and
prestige, by a network of old family friends in the law business. So she'd
stayed, terrified that he might kill her in one of his rages, but not daring to
leave. No matter what, she had to protect her father.

But finally she found a way to escape. Roger
had beaten her with a belt one night. But his parents had been in
Europe
on vacation, and by the time they found out about the incident it was too late
to use their influence. Michelle had crept out of the house, gone to a hospital
where her bruises and lacerations were treated and recorded, and she'd gotten
copies of the records. Those records had bought her a divorce.

The princess would carry the scars to her
grave.