the first time. She felt like a fawn taking its first steps into a meadow, wondering what dangers lay beyond the quiet, dark glade.
She bit her lower lip hard. She wanted to crawl back into her cocoon and forget what she’d been thinking. Cole was far too dangerous for a novice.
They were driving near the river now, and Heather remembered almost drowning there the first summer Cole and Emma lived at Big Spur. Cole had plucked her out of the water, a shivering little thirteen-year-old with big blue eyes. She’d been his possession since that day, and he’d treated her like one. He’d always had a hand in the major decisions of her life. Her parties, her friends, her travels had all been dictated by Cole, even before her father’s death. Her education at an exclusive Swiss girls’ school—which she’d hated—had been his idea, too. But when it came to singing, she’d managed to get her own way. Emma had stood by her, especially after a well-known promoter named Pete Howell had raved about her talent. Her first appearance at a local nightclub had led to several other offers, and engagement after engagement followed until the big break finally came—the two-week engagement, that she’d just been starting the night of the accident.
“…otherwise, it’s been going smoothly,” the ranch hand was saying. “Bill said to tell you he sure was sorry he didn’t get word to you about Miss Shaw. He got busy….”
“Which is no damned excuse at all,” Cole shot back, his silver eyes blazing. “By God, I’ll tear a strip off him for that!”
His hard, chiseled mouth made a thin line, and Heather was glad she couldn’t see his eyes from the backseat. There was a white-hot anger in his otherwise controlled voice. But then, everything about Cole was controlled. Mr. Cool, she used to call him behind his back. No matter how she tried, she never could rattle him. Her worst tempers only amused him. She’d worn herself out against the rock of his will without accomplishing anything. Her young adulthood had been full of rages. And Cole took them in stride, either ignoring her antics or putting an end to them with a well-placed look and a firm command. She’d never stood up to him until she wanted a career enough to throw caution to the winds. But without Emma’s careful pleading, she’d never have won. She’d never seen anyone match Cole. And she never expected to. She felt sorry for Bill, whoever he was. Cole could be utterly cruel.
* * *
They wound up the long driveway with its rows of dogwoods, bare now in the winter chill. The house was austerely elegant amid the dark skeletons of the huge oak and pecan trees. No sooner had the station wagon pulled up at the front steps than Emma Everett Shaw came running down them like a silver-haired whirlwind, her deep brown eyes shimmering with excitement, her arms opened wide in welcome.
Heather ran into those slender, outstretched arms like a baby rabbit into its hutch, the pitiful croak of a sob tearing out of her throat.
“My baby,” Emma cooed, nestling the tumble of waving platinum hair against her shoulder. “My poor baby, you’re safe now, you’re home, Emma’s here.”
That made her cry even more. How many times in her tragedy-torn young life had those words been whispered at her ear? How many tears had poured onto Emma’s thin shoulders? The older woman smelled of spices and flour instead of the expensive perfume she connected with her late mother.
Emma was unpretentious, taking her wealth and position for granted. She could charm beggars and kings alike, and Heather had seen her hide a twenty-dollar bill in a farm woman’s pocket when there was a money problem in the family that Emma knew about. She delighted in being sneaky about her contributions. No one knew exactly how much money she donated to charity, or in what incredible ways she went about her good works. Heather had known her to anonymously pay a monstrous hospital bill that some down-on-his-luck new father couldn’t manage without insurance, and then pretend to be surprised when some member of her garden club told her about it.
Heather cried even harder. Disloyal though it seemed to admit it, her own mother had never cared so much. And Heather loved Emma in a way she could never have loved the fragile, cold piece of porcelain her mother had been.
“That’s enough,” Cole said suddenly. He separated the two women and, holding Heather roughly by the arm, herded her up the stairs. “I don’t mind a few tears, but you can’t have hysterics on the front steps.”
Her bright, flaming eyes glared up at him violently, and she wanted to hit him. Behind them, Emma was moving quickly up the steps, muttering under her breath. Heather almost smiled. All her life, Emma had muttered at men—first at her husband, then at Heather’s father, and now at Cole. It was her own form of passive rebellion, and Heather couldn’t help being amused by it. Emma muttered with style.
Once they were in the house, Emma smiled gently at the tear-stained face of her stepdaughter. “Go upstairs and rest, sweetheart,” she said softly, “and I’ll bring you some hot chocolate. Would you like that?”
Heather’s blue eyes lit up. Hot chocolate had always soothed her; it was Emma’s answer to chicken soup. She nodded enthusiastically, pausing to throw a hostile glance in Cole’s general direction before she held on to the curved, polished wood of the bannister and moved slowly up the beige carpeted staircase to her old room.
She threw open the door and let her tired eyes drink in the sight of the delightfully pink room. The wallpaper was pale pink and matched the thick quilted coverlet and pillow shams on the double bed. There was a full-length mirror on the closet door, and a crystal lamp on the antique washstand against the wall. The carpeting was the same soft beige as in the rest of the house, and there was a wing chair upholstered in fabric that matched the wallpaper.
Heather settled herself on the window seat and looked out over the white-fenced ranch, ignoring Cole as he entered the room to place her bags on the floor before coming to stand beside her.
He followed her gaze to the sweep of land in its winter desolation. The red-coated cattle were massed at feed troughs where silage was taking the place of lush green grass in their diets. Paddocks near the barn sported handsome Appaloosa stallions and two white-coated fillies in separate pastures. Heather sighed, remembering what it was like to ride a horse out through the fields, to hear the lazy creak of saddle leather and to feel the spring breeze wafting in her loosened hair.
“When you’re a little stronger, I’ll take you riding,” Cole said suddenly, as if he’d looked into her mind. It was an uncanny habit he’d always had, one that never failed to stun her. “That is, if you haven’t forgotten how to ride.”
She glared at him, meeting the challenge in his polished silver eyes as she jerked her head deliberately from side to side.
A mocking smile touched his chiseled mouth. “I can almost see the words in your mind,” he mused, making her feel more child than woman.
She hit out at him unexpectedly. It was the only alternative to the scalding tirade she couldn’t produce—but it proved equally ineffective. He caught her wrist with his lean, powerful fingers and jerked her against him. His other hand tangled in the long, silken ribbon of her hair, subduing her effortlessly as he pulled her head back until her stunned eyes met his.
“Don’t tempt me,” he said quietly, his darkening gaze sweeping across her flushed face, taking in the creamy skin, the fullness of her mouth. “You’re not too big to spank, Sunflower.”
She struggled, but he only held her closer, mocking her with his lean, surprising strength. He’d never held her like this before, and she’d never fought with him physically. It was new, heady, to tempt Cole into violence.
She pushed against
