Rawhide and Lace by Diana Palmer Page A

the compliment. "It's called a leotard."
     
    "What are you going to get married in?" he asked between sips of coffee.
     
    "Well," she began, panting as she sat up and wiped her face with a towel, "I have a beige street-length dress-"
     
    "The hell you say," he interrupted hotly.
     
    She stared at him, uncomprehending. "What's the matter with you?"
     
    "White, that's what," he returned shortly. He put the cup down and kneeled beside her. "White. No beige or green or gray. You get married in a white dress."
     
    Her face colored. "I don't have the right anymore," she murmured.
     
    "It was me," he said levelly, although his eyes were flashing. "I remember exactly what you looked like, and how new it was to you. The instant it happened, I was looking straight into your eyes. I even remember how it felt: white."
     
    She swallowed. "White," she said slowly, shaken by the passion in his voice, his eyes.
     
    "No man ever had a sweeter virgin," he breathed, looking at her mouth. "No man ever enjoyed an initiation as much as I enjoyed that one. There's never been anyone but me, and we both know it. In the eyes of God, that married us as surely as any minister will, and nobody's going to shame you out of your white wedding dress. Not even your own little puritan conscience."
     
    She managed a smile. "You're a nice man sometimes."
     
    "I haven't had much practice at being nice," he confessed, toying with the sleeve of her leotard. "I grew up pretty alone, and I've been that way most of my life. I never mixed well. I still don't."
     
    He was so different in these rare moods. So approachable. She reached out hesitantly and touched the back of his hand, letting her fingers learn the hair-roughened skin, the long, elegant fingers.
     
    "Nicotine stains," she murmured, seeing the yellow between his forefinger and his middle finger. "Why do you smoke so much?"
     
    "I only do it when I'm strung out, living on my nerves," he said quietly, looking straight into her eyes. "You do that to me. Having you around, being near you."
     
    She smiled. "I can't imagine anything or anyone making you nervous, least of all me."
     
    "Think so? Look." He held out his hand, and she saw that it was trembling slightly.
     
    Shocked, she looked up into his eyes and saw the flames there, burning steadily, consuming. Suddenly she understood. "Oh, Ty..." she breathed.
     
    "That's why you shouldn't carouse around here in see-through gowns," he murmured, smiling at his own vulnerability. "I'm a case when I get close to you."
     
    She searched his silvery eyes quietly. So it hadn't been easy for him, either. His conscience had hurt because of the way things had happened. The loss of the baby disturbed him, Bruce's death had hurt, was still hurting probably. He'd had his own share of grief and guilt, yet he'd come himself to bring her back to Staghorn, forced her to feel again, bullied her into caring about her health. And she'd given him nothing except a hard time. Bruce had done this to them, out of misplaced love and blazing jealousy...but it was time to let go of the past and take responsibility for the future. Their future. It was too late to dwell on what might have been if Bruce hadn't interfered.
     
    "After we're married," she said softly, choosing her words with exquisite care and looking into his eyes the whole time, "I'll let you have me."
     
    A visible shudder went through his strong body. "You don't realize what you're saying," he said.
     
    "So far, you've done most of the giving," she replied. "You've lost Bruce and part of your inheritance and been stuck with me to boot. You've made me go on living when I wanted to die. I think it's time I gave you something."
     
    His jaw tensed. He got to his feet and moved away. "That's something we can discuss another time."
     
    "I've set you off again." She sighed. "Oh, Ty, won't you ever learn not to blow up every time I say something personal?"
     
    "Sure," he returned, wheeling, "when you stop