speculation."
"You never cared about gossip before."
"I was never publicly savaged before," she
countered. "I've been made to look
like some clinging, simpering nymph crying for a man who doesn't want her. My pride is in shreds!"
He was watching her narrowly. "How do you know that
I don't want you, Tira ?"
he asked deliberately.
She stared at him without speaking, floored by the
question.
"I'll pick you up at six on Saturday and drive you
to Jacobs- ville ," he said. "Wear something elegant. It's
formal."
"I won't go," she said
through her teeth.
"You'll go," he replied with chilling certainty.
234
Beloved
Diana Palmer
235
He turned and walked to his own car with her glaring
after him. Well, they'd just see about that! she
told herself.
It was barely a week until Christmas. Tira had the party for the children to look
forward to on Christmas Eve, to help her feel some Christmas spirit. She had an artificial tree that she set up in her living room every year. She'd have loved a real one,
with its own dirt ball so that it could be set
out in the yard after the holidays, but she
was violently allergic to fir trees of any kind. The expensive artificial tree was very authentic-looking and once she decorated it, it could have fooled an expert at a
distance.
She
had a collection of faux gold-plated cherubs and elegant gold foil ribbons to use for decorations, along
with gold and silver bead strands and
fairy lights. For whimsy, there were a few me chanical ornaments scattered deep within the limbs, which could be activated by the touch of a finger. She had a
red-and-white latch-hook rug that
went around the base of the tree, and around that was a Lionel "O"
scale train set—the one she'd seen in the window of the department store that day she'd come across Simon on
the sidewalk. She'd gone back and bought the train, and now she enjoyed watching it run. It only lacked one
or two little lighted buildings to go
beside it. Those, she reasoned, she could add later.
She stood back and admired her handiwork. She was wearing a gold-and-white caftan that echoed the color
scheme of the tree, especially with her hair loose. It was
Saturday, but she wasn't going to the Hart party. In fact, when Simon rang the
doorbell, he wasn't going to get into the house. She felt very smug about the ease with which she'd avoided him.
"Very nice," came a deep,
amused voice from behind her.
She
whirled and found Simon, in evening clothing, watching her from the doorway.
"How...how did you get in?" she gasped.
"Mrs. Lester kindly left the back door unlocked for
me," he mused. "I told her that we were
going out and that you'd probably forget. She's
very obliging. A real romantic, Mrs. Lester."
"I'll
fire her Monday the minute she gets back from her sis ter's!" she snarled.
"No, you won't. She's a
treasure." She swept back her hair. "I'm not
going to Jacobsville!"
"You are," he said.
"Either you get dressed, or I dress you." "Ha!" She folded her arms across her chest and dared him to do his worst.
The prospect seemed to amuse him. He took her by the arm with
his good hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom, opened the door, put
her in and closed it behind them. He'd al ready
been here, she could tell, because a white strapless evening gown was laid out
on the bed, along with filmy underthings that matched
it.
"You...you invaded my bedroom!" she raged. "Yes, I did. It was very educational. You don't
dress like a siren at all. Most of your wardrobe
seems to consist of cotton underthings and
jeans and tank tops." He glanced at her. "I like that caftan you're
wearing, but it's not quite appropriate for to night's festivities."
"I'm not putting on that
dress."
He chuckled softly. "You are. Sooner or
later."
She started toward the door and found herself swept up against him, held firmly by that damned prosthesis that
seemed to work every bit as well as
the arm it had replaced.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised
softly.
"You never cared about gossip before."
"I was never publicly savaged before," she
countered. "I've been made to look
like some clinging, simpering nymph crying for a man who doesn't want her. My pride is in shreds!"
He was watching her narrowly. "How do you know that
I don't want you, Tira ?"
he asked deliberately.
She stared at him without speaking, floored by the
question.
"I'll pick you up at six on Saturday and drive you
to Jacobs- ville ," he said. "Wear something elegant. It's
formal."
"I won't go," she said
through her teeth.
"You'll go," he replied with chilling certainty.
234
Beloved
Diana Palmer
235
He turned and walked to his own car with her glaring
after him. Well, they'd just see about that! she
told herself.
It was barely a week until Christmas. Tira had the party for the children to look
forward to on Christmas Eve, to help her feel some Christmas spirit. She had an artificial tree that she set up in her living room every year. She'd have loved a real one,
with its own dirt ball so that it could be set
out in the yard after the holidays, but she
was violently allergic to fir trees of any kind. The expensive artificial tree was very authentic-looking and once she decorated it, it could have fooled an expert at a
distance.
She
had a collection of faux gold-plated cherubs and elegant gold foil ribbons to use for decorations, along
with gold and silver bead strands and
fairy lights. For whimsy, there were a few me chanical ornaments scattered deep within the limbs, which could be activated by the touch of a finger. She had a
red-and-white latch-hook rug that
went around the base of the tree, and around that was a Lionel "O"
scale train set—the one she'd seen in the window of the department store that day she'd come across Simon on
the sidewalk. She'd gone back and bought the train, and now she enjoyed watching it run. It only lacked one
or two little lighted buildings to go
beside it. Those, she reasoned, she could add later.
She stood back and admired her handiwork. She was wearing a gold-and-white caftan that echoed the color
scheme of the tree, especially with her hair loose. It was
Saturday, but she wasn't going to the Hart party. In fact, when Simon rang the
doorbell, he wasn't going to get into the house. She felt very smug about the ease with which she'd avoided him.
"Very nice," came a deep,
amused voice from behind her.
She
whirled and found Simon, in evening clothing, watching her from the doorway.
"How...how did you get in?" she gasped.
"Mrs. Lester kindly left the back door unlocked for
me," he mused. "I told her that we were
going out and that you'd probably forget. She's
very obliging. A real romantic, Mrs. Lester."
"I'll
fire her Monday the minute she gets back from her sis ter's!" she snarled.
"No, you won't. She's a
treasure." She swept back her hair. "I'm not
going to Jacobsville!"
"You are," he said.
"Either you get dressed, or I dress you." "Ha!" She folded her arms across her chest and dared him to do his worst.
The prospect seemed to amuse him. He took her by the arm with
his good hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom, opened the door, put
her in and closed it behind them. He'd al ready
been here, she could tell, because a white strapless evening gown was laid out
on the bed, along with filmy underthings that matched
it.
"You...you invaded my bedroom!" she raged. "Yes, I did. It was very educational. You don't
dress like a siren at all. Most of your wardrobe
seems to consist of cotton underthings and
jeans and tank tops." He glanced at her. "I like that caftan you're
wearing, but it's not quite appropriate for to night's festivities."
"I'm not putting on that
dress."
He chuckled softly. "You are. Sooner or
later."
She started toward the door and found herself swept up against him, held firmly by that damned prosthesis that
seemed to work every bit as well as
the arm it had replaced.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised
softly.
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