Heather Graham
Authors: Maverickand the Lady
Heather Graham
For Marion Rosello, with lots of love
PROLOGUE
T
HE BREEZE PICKED UP
suddenly, lifting a piece of tumbleweed and bouncing it forlornly across the dusty lane. The sun was just up, and the landscape was bathed in gentle mauves and golds—a lie, for the land here was anything but gentle. In the distance a rooster crowed, welcoming the morning. The sun, battling the last vestiges of night, suddenly sent its brilliant rays hurtling across the land, and Martine Galway lifted a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sudden brightness.
There was, as she had expected, a Land-Rover coming up the lane to the house. She had known Ken Lander wouldn’t give her a moment’s grace, just as he had known she could never repay the loan he had given her within the time specified by the promissory note.
Gritting her teeth together, Martie planted her thumbs in her jeans pockets and wedged her heels more firmly into the dirt beneath them. For one quick moment she wondered why it mattered. The Four-Leaf Clover had never been much but dust and tumbleweed.
She closed her eyes. It mattered because it was home. It mattered because Galways had been fighting for a living off the land since the potato famine had forced them from Ireland more than a century ago. It mattered because she had fought the damn land herself and because she couldn’t bear to lose—especially to Ken Lander.
The silver Land-Rover was getting closer, spitting up dust as it came. It would take another minute for Lander to reach the house. Martie allowed her gaze to wander. To the left of the house was a field, at long last filled with high grasses. The horses, unaware that the day had broken in doom, seemed filled with spirit this morning. Clare, a peppery red mare, nipped her colt, tossed her tail high, and went cantering along the fence in freedom. Martie envied the horse.
She squared her shoulders and gazed down the lane once more. The Land-Rover was still coming, jolting in a way that for once made Martie grateful that the long drive was filled with potholes.
God, but it was a comedy! she thought bitterly.
The Perils of Pauline
. Any minute now he would come and tell her he owned the place.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she would not let them fall and blinked against them. There was one out. And in the end, she wondered, would it matter if she took that way?
The sun rose higher. Once again she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from its glare. Staring past the fields and the approaching vehicle, she frowned. High up on the western ridge she could see a single horseman. He was just poised there, very still, and it seemed that he was looking down at the ranch. Who the hell was it? she wondered. The neighboring ranchers should be busy with their chores. And she had never seen the horse before. It was a magnificent creature, a good seventeen hands, sleek and beautiful against the changing panorama of the sky.
Martie sighed. She had her own problems to deal with that morning.
The Land-Rover pulled up in front of her, spewing dust. Martie didn’t step back; she just closed her eyes for a moment as the dust settled over her. The door of the Land-Rover opened, and Ken Lander stepped out.
He was a tall man, blond and handsome—or he would be handsome, she thought, if there weren’t a look about his eyes that hinted of cruelty, a love of power, and the need to bring others low. He did have a certain power; of that Martie was well aware. Even as a child he’d been ruthless; even in his teens he’d attracted women, used them. But something about the coldness in his blue eyes had always made Martie want to squirm. Maybe because she knew all too well the way he’d managed to discard Susan Riley—among others.
He took a step toward her, his bronzed face creased with a smile of triumph. Her heart fluttered furiously once, and then the calm she had assumed returned to her. She glanced too quickly over his pristine form; for a rancher, Ken managed to stay too damned clean. From his tan suede jacket to his snakeskin boots, he looked like the upwardly mobile man-about-town, ready to make his mark on the world. Well, she couldn’t accuse him of being stupid. He’d made half the valley his—and more than half the people in it. And he was trying to do the same to her today.
“Morning, Martine,” he said, pausing at the hood of the Land-Rover to lean casually against it. The gesture was obvious. She was going to come to him, crawl to him if he had his way. “I see you were expecting me.”
“Kenneth,” she replied, hooking both thumbs into her jeans pockets again. “Yes, I was expecting you.” The breeze picked up again and lifted her hair, sent it flying about her shoulders and throat, catching the rising sun, and gleaming with touches of deep fire.
She wished suddenly that she’d had the sense to tie it up that morning. Ken’s hand twitched, his grin deepened, and she knew that he was thinking he’d like to tangle his fingers in it.
She felt a little ill, but she couldn’t show it.
“Well?” he asked, apparently growing impatient.
“Well what?” she demanded.
“Have you got the money?”
“You know damned well I haven’t. Not the full amount.”
“Well, well, well …”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim cigar. He studied it for a moment before flicking his monogrammed lighter. “What are we going to do about this sad state of affairs?”
What are
we
going to do?
The question reverberated in her mind. She swallowed fiercely, hoping he didn’t see the small gesture. Would she be a fool to think a moment’s loss of virtue worth the ranch, worth a hundred years of struggle?
“Martine?”
“I have half the money,” she said.
“Half? Not good enough.”
“If I had just another week or two—”
“Martine, Martine!” Lander puffed on his cigar and watched the smoke fade away. Then he smiled at her, and she felt herself tremble a little because the slight motion of his mouth was such a sexual threat. “You knew the terms when you signed those papers. Today the principal is due in full or else I take the ranch. Unless, of course, you can find something to say—or do—to convince me to extend the loan.”
“Like what?” Martine asked, hedging.
“I think we both know the answer to that, don’t we?”
“Why are you doing this?” she inquired quietly, wondering if it was possible to appeal to decency in him—if there was any decency in him.
“Why?” he repeated softly. “Come on over here, Martine, and I’ll try to tell you about it.”
Take the step, and damn foolish pride,
she thought. Maybe there was still a chance. If she could just be a little cajoling, she might trick him into a little time.
She wanted to lower her eyes; she didn’t allow herself. Keeping her thumbs rigidly in her pockets, she started to walk, meeting his mocking gaze steadily. For a moment she hated herself. And then she, too, mocked Martine Galway in her thoughts. What had she been expecting this morning? This was no longer the great Wild West. The days of gun battles were over. The cavalry was not going to ride to the rescue. She knew her choices: Give him the ranch—or herself.
She stopped about a foot in front of him, and her chin naturally raised. She was a slim five-five, and at an inch or so more than six feet, plus his boots, he towered over her.
He reached out to catch a stray tendril of her hair; her jaw locked hard so she wouldn’t flinch, but he saw the gesture and smiled. “Still think you’re too good for me, Martie?”
“I never thought I was too good for you, Ken,” she replied levelly, meeting his eyes.
“Yes, you did. You were always Pat Galway’s daughter, the town aristocracy! Cheerleader, prom queen …”
“Come on, Ken. We haven’t been children for a decade—”
“Maybe it wasn’t always your fault,” he interrupted. “Ever since your grandfather married that French woman, the Galways thought they were breeding something special. That’s when they became so damned arrogant.”
His finger had strayed from her hair to her cheek, from her cheek to her throat, and now hovered over the rise of her breasts. She pushed it aside.
“We didn’t become arrogant with my grandmother. The Galways have always had a penchant for recognizing trash—and dealing with it accordingly.”
“Why, you uppity little bitch!” he snapped, his smile disappearing from his face. Martie worried that she had gone too far; she took another step back and then another as he stalked her.
“Get away from me, Ken Lander!” she exclaimed furiously. “You can take the ranch, but you can’t take me!”
“Can’t I? You know, I think that’s the trouble with you, Martine Galway. You’ve wanted someone to take you for a long, long time. You’ve been getting pruned and soured up here, a woman all alone. And you know what else, Martine?”
“I don’t want to know anything!” she told him, growing alarmed at the tic of anger in his cheek, at the way his fists were clenched at his side. She didn’t trust him. She knew he’d hurt a number of people before, yet she hadn’t believed he’d dare attack her on her property in broad daylight. “And I’m not alone here,” she cried out more defensively than she wanted to. “I’ve got ranch hands—”
“Who all are miles away, working, aren’t they?”
He caught her wrists. She struggled furiously with him, kicking and scratching. “I don’t mind a little tussle,” he told her.
“Damn you! Let me go. So help me God, I’ll bring charges—”
“Charges?” His query was so polite that she paused, and as she did so he caught her ankle with his foot, sending her sprawling to the ground. The dust and dirt filled her mouth, and she coughed as she tried desperately to roll away. But then he was down on her, straddling her waist, catching her wrists.
When she met his eyes again, she didn’t like what she saw at all. He wanted revenge—for whatever supposed wrongs all the Galways had done to him. She stilled, thinking her only chance would be to catch him off guard.
“Charges? I don’t think so, Martine. If you bring charges, I’ll just have to be real embarrassed. I wouldn’t want to have to say the things about a lady that I’d have to say about you. Remember, you did sign the note. I just came over to see about my investment. And there you were, trying to bribe your way out of debt with your body.”
“Who would believe you?”
“A lot of people know you’d sell your soul to save the ranch. I’d never deny having you, honey, just your reception to the situation. And like I said, Martine, I think that line’s comparable to all the manure in the valley. You’ve been asking for it for a long, long time.”
His hold on her wrist was going lax. With a wild burst of energy and fury she freed her hand and brought her nails against his cheek. He swore and tightened his knee grip around her waist. He touched the blood on his cheek briefly, then easily caught her fists. Martine gasped with dismay as her shirt gave in the struggle, the buttons ripping off the faded blue denim and the material falling away. She was heaving with exertion, and above the low-cut lace of her bra the mounds of her breasts rose and fell furiously, drawing his amused gaze when he at last subdued her. She tensed as his face came close to hers, grinding her teeth together hard against the strong, handsome features ruined by the look of absolute ruthlessness.
“You’ll pay for this!” she growled. “I’ll scream—”
“And who will hear you—except the tumbleweed?” he said mockingly. Then he laughed. “Trust me, Martie, in seconds I’ll have you screaming with pleasure.”
“I swear I’ll—”
“Always the fighter, Martie. You know, that’s one thing I like about you. But I like a lot about you. I’ve always liked to watch you move, honey. You’ve got a body that doesn’t quit. You know, Martine, I could probably even be persuaded to marry you.”