Diana Palmer Texan Lovers. Diana Palmer
again.
“So you keep telling me,” he replied curtly. “And then you go and do something stupid like this.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being sophisticated,” she mumbled. “God knows how I’ll ever get an education. You seem to want me to spend the rest of my life a virgin.”
“Hang out in this kind of atmosphere and you won’t stay in that sainted condition for much longer,” he returned angrily. She disturbed him when she made such statements. She had been talking like that for months, and he was no nearer a solution to the problem than he had been at the beginning. He quickened his pace toward the car, his booted feet making loud, angry thuds on the pavement.
Calhoun was still wearing a dark suit, Abby noticed. His thick dark-blond hair was covered by his cream dress Stetson. He smelled of Oriental cologne, and his dark face was clean-shaven. He was a handsome brute, Abby thought. Sexy and overpoweringly masculine, and she loved every line of him, every scowl, every rugged inch. She forced her screaming nerves not to give her away and attempted to hide her attraction to him, as usual, with humor.
“Aren’t we in a temper, though?” she taunted softly, and his dark expression hardened. It was exciting to make him mad. She’d only realized that in the past few weeks, but more and more she liked to prod him, to see his explosive reactions. She loved the touch of his hands, and provoking him had become addictive. “I’m a big girl. I graduated from the trade school last year. I have a diploma. I’m a secretary. I’m working for Mr. Bundy at the feedlot sales office—”
“I remember. I paid for the trade school courses and got you the damned job,” he said tersely.
“You sure did, Calhoun,” she agreed, her mischievous gaze darting up at him as he opened the passenger door of the vehicle and put her on the smooth leather seat, slamming the door once she was settled. He went around the gleaming hood and got in under the steering wheel. There was muted violence in the way he started the powerful white car, shot away from the curb and drove down the main town’s street.
“Abby, I can’t believe you really wanted to pay money to watch a bunch of boys take their clothes off,” he muttered.
“It beats having boys try to take mine off,” she returned humorously. “You must think so, too, because you go nuts if I try to date anybody with any experience.”
He frowned. That was true. It upset him to think of any man taking advantage of Abby. He didn’t want other men touching her.
“I’d beat a man to his knees for trying to undress you, and that’s a fact,” he said.
“My poor future husband,” she sighed. “I can see him now, calling the police on our wedding night…”
“You’re years too young to talk about getting married,” he said.
“I’ll be twenty-one in three months. My mother was twenty-one when she had me,” she reminded him.
“I’m thirty-two, and I’ve never been married,” he replied. “There’s plenty of time. You don’t need to rush into marriage before you’ve had time to see something of the world,” he said firmly.
“How can I?” she asked reasonably. “You won’t let me.”
He glared at her. “It’s the part of life that you’re trying to see that bothers me. Male strip shows. My God.”
“They weren’t going to take all their clothes off,” she assured him. “Just most of them.”
“Why did you decide to go tonight?”
“I didn’t have anything else to do,” she sighed. “And Misty had been to see this show.”
“Misty Davies,” he muttered. “I’ve told you I don’t approve of your friendship with that flighty heiress. She’s years older than you and much more sophisticated.”
“No wonder,” she replied. “She doesn’t have an overbearing guardian who’s determined to save her from herself.”
“She could have used one. A woman who treats her body cheaply doesn’t invite a wedding ring.”
“So you keep saying. At least Misty won’t faint of shock on her wedding night when her husband takes his clothes off. I’ve never seen a man without a stitch on. Except in this magazine that Misty had—” she began, warming to her subject.
“For God’s sake, you shouldn’t be reading that kind of magazine!” He looked outraged.
Her eyebrows went up suddenly, and her eyes were as round as saucers. “Why not?”
He searched for words. “Well…because!”
“Men ogle women in those kind of magazines,” she said reasonably. “If we can be exploited, why can’t men?”
He finally gave in to ill temper. “Why can’t you just shut up, Abby?”
“Okay, Calhoun, I’ll do that very thing,” she agreed. She studied his hard, angry profile, and almost smiled at the way she’d gotten him ruffled. He might not be in love with her, but she certainly did have a knack for getting his attention.
“All this sudden fascination with male nudity,” he grumbled, glaring at her. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
“Frustration,” she replied. “It comes from too many nights sitting home alone.”
“I’ve never tried to stop you from dating,” he said defensively.
“Oh, no, of course you haven’t. You just sit with my prospective dates and make a big deal of cleaning your gun collection while you air your archaic views on premarital sex!”
“They’re not archaic,” he said curtly. “A lot of men feel the way I do about it.”
“Do tell?” She lifted her eyebrow. “And I suppose that means that you’re a virgin, too, Calhoun?”
His dark eyes cut sideways at her. “Do you think so, Abby?” he asked, in a tone she’d never heard him use.
She suddenly felt very young. The huskiness in his deep voice, added to the faint arrogance in his dark eyes, made her feel foolish for even having asked. Of course he wasn’t a virgin.
She averted her eyes. “Foolish question,” she murmured softly.
“Wasn’t it, though?” He pressed on the accelerator. For some reason, it bothered him to have Abby know what his private life was like. She probably knew more than he’d given her credit for, especially if she was hanging around with Misty Davies. Misty frequented the same kind of city hot spots that Calhoun did, and she’d seen him with one or two of his occasional companions. He hoped Misty hadn’t talked to Abby about what she’d seen, but he couldn’t count on it.
His sudden withdrawal puzzled Abby. She didn’t like the cold silence that was growing between them any more than she liked thinking about his women. “How did you know where I was?” she asked to break the rigid silence.
“I didn’t, honey,” he confessed. The endearment sounded so natural coming from him that she’d never minded him using it, though she disliked its artificiality when other men did. “I happened to come home through Jacobsville. And who should I see in line—in front of all the lurid posters—but you?”
She sighed. “Fate. Fate is out to get me.”
“Fate may not be the only one,” he returned, but his voice was so low that she couldn’t hear.
He turned onto the road that led past the feedlot to the big Spanish house where the Ballengers lived. On the way they passed the Jacobs’s colonial-style house, far off the road at the end of a paved driveway, with purebred Arabian horses grazing in sprawling pastures dotted with oak trees. There wasn’t much grass—the weather was still cold, and a few snow flurries had caused excitement the day before. Big bales of hay