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