Dear Reader,
I really can’t express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Harlequin Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.
But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You can’t imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.
I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Harlequin Books—from my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.
Thank you for this tribute, Harlequin, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.
Diana Palmer
DIANA PALMER
The prolific author of more than a hundred books, Diana Palmer got her start as a newspaper reporter. A multi–New York Times bestselling author and one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.
Visit her website at www.DianaPalmer.com.
Regan’s Pride
Diana Palmer
For Babs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
The tall, silver-haired man stood quietly apart from the rest of the mourners, his eyes, narrowed and contemptuous, on the slender, black-clad figure beside his sister. His cousin Barry was dead, and that woman was responsible. Not only had she tormented her husband of two years into alcoholism, but she’d allowed him to get behind the wheel of a car when he was drunk and he’d gone off a bridge to his death. And there she stood, four million dollars richer, without a single tear in her eyes. She looked completely untouchable—and Ted Regan knew that she had been, as far as her husband had been concerned.
His sister noticed his cold stare and left the widow’s side to join him.
“Stop glaring at her. How can you be so unfeeling?” Sandy asked angrily. His sister had dark hair. At forty, he was fifteen years older than she, and prematurely gray. They shared the same pale blue eyes, though, and the same temper.
“Am I being unfeeling?” he asked with a careless smile, and raised his smoking cigarette to his mouth.
“You promised you were going to give that up,” she reminded him.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “I did. I only smoke when I’m under a lot of stress, and only outdoors.”
“I wasn’t worried about secondhand smoke. You’re my brother, and I care about you,” she said simply.
He smiled, and his hand touched her face briefly. “I’ll try to quit. Again,” he said wryly. He glanced at the widow with cold eyes. “She’s a case, isn’t she? I haven’t seen a single tear. They were married for two years.”
“Nobody knows what goes on inside a marriage, Ted,” she reminded him quietly.
“I suppose not,” he mused. “I’ve never wanted to marry anybody, but it seems to work out for a few people.”
“Like the Ballengers here in Jacobsville,” she agreed with a smile. “They go on forever. I envy them.”
Ted wasn’t going to touch that line with a pole. He drew on the cigarette, and his harsh gaze went back to the heavily veiled woman by the black limousine.
“Why the veil?” he asked coldly. “Is she afraid Barry’s mother may wonder why there aren’t any tears in her big blue eyes?”
“You’re so cynical and harsh, Ted, it’s no wonder to me that you’ve never married,” she said with resignation. “I’ve heard people say that no woman in south Texas would be brave enough to take you on!”
“There’s no woman in south Texas that I’d have,” he countered.
“Least of all, Coreen Tarleton,” she added for him, because the way he was looking at her best friend spoke volumes.
“She’s even younger than you,” he said curtly. “Twenty-four to my forty,” he added quietly. “Years too young for me, even if I were interested. Which I am not,” he added with a speaking glance.
“She isn’t what you think,” Sandy said.
“I’m glad you’re loyal to the people you love, tidbit, but you’re never going to convince me that the merry widow over there is grieving.”
“You’ve always been unkind to her,” Sandy said.
He stiffened. “She was a pest once.”
Sandy didn’t reply. She’d often thought that Ted had been in love for the first time in his life with Coreen, but he’d let the age difference stand between them. He was forty, but he had the physique of a man half that age, and the expensive dark suit he was wearing flattered it. He was a working millionaire. He never sat at a desk. He was slender and strong, and as handsome as the late cowboy star Randolph Scott. But he had no use for women now; not since Coreen had married.
“You’re coming back to the house with us, aren’t you?” Sandy asked after a minute. “They’re reading the will after lunch.”
“In a hurry, is she?” he asked icily.
“It was Barry’s mother’s idea, not hers,” Sandy shot back angrily.
