Heartbreaker by Linda Howard
She didn’t want to stop. Already she was coming apart inside, because she wanted nothing more than to simply lie against him and feel his hands on her. She’d known it would be like this, and she’d known she couldn’t let it happen, couldn’t let him get close to her. The feeling was so powerful that it frightened her. He frightened her. He would demand too much from her, take so much that there wouldn’t be anything left when he moved on. She’d always known instinctively that she couldn’t handle him.
It took every bit of inner strength she had to turn her face away from his mouth, to put her hands on his shoulders and push. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to move him; when he released her and moved back a scant few inches, she was bitterly aware that it was by his own choice, not hers. He was watching her, waiting for her decision.
Silence filled the room with a thick presence as she struggled to regain her composure under his unwavering gaze. She could feel the situation slipping out of control. For ten years she had carefully cultivated the hostility between them, terrified of letting him discover that just looking at him turned her bones to water. She’d seen too many of his women with stars in their eyes while he gave them his attention, focusing his intense sexual instincts on them, but all too soon he’d moved on to someone else, and the stars had always turned into hunger and pain and emptiness. Now he was looking at her with that penetrating attention, just what she’d always tried to avoid. She hadn’t wanted him to notice her as a woman; she hadn’t wanted to join the ranks of all those other women he’d used and left. She had enough trouble now, without adding a broken heart, and John Rafferty was a walking heartache. Her back was already to the wall; she couldn’t bear anything else, either emotionally or financially.
But his gaze burned her with black fire, sliding slowly over her body as if measuring her breasts for the way they would fit his hands, her hips for the way his would adjust against them, her legs for the way they would wrap around him in the throes of pleasure. He’d never looked at her in that way before, and it shook her down to her marrow. Pure sexual speculation was in his eyes. In his mind he was already inside her, tasting her, feeling her, giving her pleasure. It was a look few women could resist, one of unashamed sexuality, carnal experience and an arrogant confidence that a woman would be ultimately satisfied in his arms. He wanted her; he intended to have her.
And she couldn’t let it happen. She’d been wrapped in a silken prison her entire life, stifled first by her father’s idealistic adoration, then by Roger Beckman’s obsessive jealousy. For the first time in her life she was alone, responsible for herself and finding some sense of worth in the responsibility. Fail or succeed, she needed to do this herself, not run to some man for help. She looked at John with a blank expression; he wanted her, but he didn’t like or even respect her, and she wouldn’t like or respect herself if she let herself become the parasite he expected her to be.
Slowly, as if her muscles ached, she eased away from him and sat down at the desk, tilting her golden head down so he couldn’t see her face. Again, pride and habit came to her aid; her voice was calm and cool when she spoke. “As I said, I don’t have the money to repay you right now, and I realize the debt is already delinquent. The solution depends on you—”
“I’ve already made my offer,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing at her coolness. He hitched one hip up on the desk beside her, his muscled thigh brushing against her arm. Michelle swallowed to alleviate the sudden dryness of her mouth, trying not to look at those powerful, denim-covered muscles. Then he leaned down, propping his bronzed forearm on his thigh, and that was worse, because it brought his torso closer, forcing her to lean back in the chair. “All you have to do is go ahead and accept it, instead of wasting time pretending you didn’t like it when I touched you.”
Michelle continued doggedly. “If you want repayment immediately, I’ll have to sell the cattle to raise the money, and I’d like to avoid that. I’m counting on the sale of the cattle to keep the ranch going. What I have in mind is to sell some of the land to raise the money, but of course that will take longer. I can’t even promise to have the money in six months; it just depends on how fast I can find a buyer.” She held her breath, waiting for his response. Selling part of the land was the only plan she’d been able to devise, but it all depended on his cooperation.
Slowly he straightened, his dark brows drawing together as he stared down at her. “Whoa, honey, let’s backtrack a little. What do you mean, ‘keep the ranch going’? The ranch is already dead.”
“No, it isn’t,” she denied, stubbornness creeping into her tone. “I still have some cattle left.”
“Where?” His disbelief was evident.
“In the south pasture. The fence on the east side needs repair, and I haven’t—” She faltered at the growing anger in his dark face. Why should it matter to him? Their land joined mostly on the north; his cattle weren’t in any danger of straying.
“Let’s backtrack a little further,” he said tightly. “Who’s supposed to be working this herd?”
So that was it. He didn’t believe her, because he knew there were no cowhands working here any longer. “I’m working the herd,” she threw back at him, her face closed and proud. He couldn’t have made it any plainer that he didn’t consider her either capable or willing when it came to ranch work.
He looked her up and down, his brows lifting as he surveyed her. She knew exactly what he saw, because she’d deliberately created the image. He saw mauve-lacquered toenails, white high-heeled sandals, crisp white linen pants and the white silk shirt, damp now, from contact with his wet clothes. Suddenly Michelle realized that she was damp all along the front, and hectic color rose to burn along her cheekbones, but she lifted her chin just that much higher. Let him look, damn him.
“Nice,” he drawled. “Let me see your hands.”
Instinctively her hands curled into fists and she glared at him. “Why?”
He moved like a striking rattler, catching her wrist and holding her clenched hand in front of him. She pulled back, twisting in an effort to escape him, but he merely tightened his grip and pried her fingers open, then turned her palm to the light. His face was still and expressionless as he looked down at her hand for a long minute; then he caught her other hand and examined it, too. His grip gentled, and he traced his fingertips over the scratches and half-healed blisters, the forming calluses.
Michelle sat with her lips pressed together in a grim line, her face deliberately blank. She wasn’t ashamed of her hands; work inevitably left its mark on human flesh, and she’d found something healing in the hard physical demands the ranch made on her. But no matter how honorable those marks, when John looked at them it was as if he’d stripped her naked and looked at her, as if he’d exposed something private. She didn’t want him to know so much about her; she didn’t want that intense interest turned on her. She didn’t want pity from anyone, but she especially didn’t want him to soften toward her.
Then his gaze lifted, those midnight eyes examining every inch of her proud, closed expression, and every instinct in her shrilled an alarm. Too late! Perhaps it had been too late from the moment he’d stepped onto the porch. From the beginning she’d sensed the tension in him, the barely controlled anticipation that she had mistaken for his usual hostility. Rafferty wasn’t used to waiting for any woman he wanted, and she’d held him off for ten years. The only time she’d been truly safe from him had been during her brief marriage, when the distance between Philadelphia and central Florida had been more than hundreds of miles; it had been the distance between two totally different life-styles, in both form and substance. But now she was back within reach, and this time she was vulnerable. She was broke, she was alone, and she owed him a hundred thousand dollars. He probably expected it to be easy.
“You didn’t have to do it alone,” he finally said, his deep voice somehow deeper and quieter. He still held her hands, and his rough thumb
Her only defense was still the light mockery she’d used against him from the beginning. She gave him a bright, careless smile. “Of course I did. As you so charmingly pointed out, I’m not exactly being trampled by all my friends rushing to my rescue, am I?”
His upper lip curled with contempt for those “friends.” He’d never had any patience with the bored and idle rich. “You could’ve come to me.”
Again she gave him that smile, knowing he hated it. “But it would take so long to work off a hundred-thousand-dollar debt in that fashion, wouldn’t it? You know how I hate being bored. A really good prostitute makes—what?—a hundred dollars a throw? Even if you were up to it three times a day, it would still take about a year—”
Swift, dark fury burned in his eyes, and he finally released her hands, but only to move his grip to her shoulders. He held her still while he raked his gaze down her body again. “Three times a day?” he asked with that deceptive softness, looking at her breasts and hips. “Yeah, I’m up to it. But you forgot about interest, honey. I charge a lot of interest.”
She quivered in his hands, wanting to close her eyes against that look. She’d taunted him rashly, and he’d turned her words back on her. Yes, he was capable of it. His sexual drive was so fierce that he practically burned with it, attracting women like helpless moths. Desperately she dredged up the control to keep smiling, and managed a little shrug despite his hands on her shoulders. “Thanks anyway, but I prefer shoveling manure.”
If he’d lost control of his temper then she would have breathed easier, knowing that she still had the upper hand, by however slim a margin. If she could push him away with insults, she’d be safe. But though his hands tightened a little on her shoulders, he kept a tight rein on his temper.
“Don’t push too hard, honey,” he advised quietly. “It wouldn’t take much for me to show you right now what you really like. You’d be better off telling me just how in hell you think you’re going to keep this ranch alive by yourself.”
For a moment her eyes were clear and bottomless, filled with a desperation he wasn’t quite certain he’d seen. Her skin was tight over her chiseled cheekbones; then the familiar cool mockery and defiance were back, her eyes mossy and opaque, her lips curling a little in the way that made him want to shake her. “The ranch is my problem,” she said, dismissing the offer of aid implicit in his words. She knew the price he’d demand for his help. “The only way it concerns you is in how you want the debt repaid.”
Finally he released her shoulders and propped himself against the desk again, stretching his long legs and crossing his booted feet at the ankle. “A hundred thousand is a lot of money. It wasn’t easy to come up with that much cash.”
She didn’t need to be told that. John might be a millionaire in assets, but a rancher’s money is tied up in land and stock, with the profits constantly being plowed back into the ranch. Cash simply wasn’t available for wasting on frivolities. Her jaw tightened. “When do you want your money?” she demanded. “Now or later?”
His dark brows lifted. “Considering the circumstances, you should be trying to sweeten me up instead of snapping at me. Why haven’t you just put the ranch and cattle up for sale? You can’t run the place anyway, and at least then you’d have money to live on until you find another meal ticket.”
“I can run it,” she flared, turning pale. She had to; it was all she had.
“No way, honey.”
“Don’t call me honey!” The ragged fury of her own voice startled her. He called every woman “honey.” It was a careless endearment that meant nothing, because so many other women had heard it from him. She couldn’t stand to think of him lying in the dark with another woman, his voice lazy and dark as they talked and he called her “honey.”
He caught her chin in his big, rough hand, turning her face up to his while his thumb rubbed over her lower lip. “I’ll call you whatever I want…honey, and you’ll keep your mouth shut, because you owe me a lot of money that you can’t repay. I’m going to think awhile about that debt and what we’re going to do about it. Until I decide, why don’t you think about this?”
Too late she tried to draw her head back, but he still held her chin, and his warm mouth settled over hers before she could jerk free. Her eyes closed as she tried to ignore the surge of pleasure in her midsection, tried to ignore the way his lips moved over hers and his tongue probed for entrance. If anything, this was worse than before, because now he was kissing her with a slow assurance that beguiled even as he demanded. She tried to turn her head away, but he forestalled the movement, spreading his legs and pulling her inside the cradle of his iron-muscled thighs. Michelle began shaking. Her hands flattened against his chest, but she could feel his heartbeat pulsing strongly against her palm, feel the accelerated rhythm of it, and she wanted to sink herself into him. Slowly he wedged her head back against his shoulder, his fingers woven into her hair as he held her. There was no way she could turn her head away from him now, and slowly she began to give way to his will. Her mouth opened beneath his, accepting the slow thrust of his tongue as he penetrated her in that small way and filled her with his taste.
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’v
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.