Paper Rose. Diana Palmer

      “His wife is dead.”

      She nodded. “I read it in the papers.” Her eyes searched his. “Cecily says you have a pretty white woman of your own.”

      “Damn Cecily!” he said through his teeth, hating his own stupidity for touching Cecily in the first place and frustrated by the painful attraction he couldn’t satisfy. “What I do is no business of hers! It never was, and it never will be!”

      “Amen to that,” Cecily said from the doorway, a little less confident because of his biting remarks, but calm just the same. “Why don’t you go home to Audrey?”

      “I don’t understand this,” Leta said worriedly as she studied her son. “You keep saying you don’t want to be involved with a white woman…”

      “Only with a plain white woman,” Cecily corrected. “Isn’t that right, Tate? But Audrey is beautiful.”

      It was only then that he realized how Cecily must feel about his relationship with the other woman, as if he’d bypassed her because she was no beauty. It wasn’t true. He’d been responsible for her for years, even if she hadn’t known it until recently. He’d fought his attraction to her because it was like exploiting her, taking advantage of her gratitude for what he’d done for her. How did he explain that without making matters worse than they already were?

      Leta could have wept for Cecily, standing there with such dignity and poise, even in the face of Tate’s hostility.

      “It has nothing to do with beauty,” Tate said finally.

      Cecily only smiled. “I’ll finish the sandwiches while you see Tate off,” she told Leta.

      “Cecily…” Tate began hesitantly.

      “We all act on impulse occasionally,” she said, meeting his eyes bravely. “It’s no big thing. Really.” She smiled, avoiding Leta’s probing gaze, and turned to the refrigerator. “Are you eating before you go?”

      He scowled fiercely. She thought he regretted touching her. Perhaps he did. He couldn’t remember being so confused.

      “No,” he said after a minute. “I’ll get something at the airport.”

      Leta went with him and waited while he got his suitcase and carried it out to his rental car, which was parked beside the one Cecily had rented. The reservation was a long drive from the airport, so a car was a necessity.

      “You two used to get along so well,” Leta murmured.

      “I’ve been blind,” he said through his teeth. “Stark staring blind.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He stared out across the rolling hills that were turning golden as autumn approached. “She’s in love with me.”

      It was a shock to hear himself say it. Until then, he hadn’t really considered it. But Cecily had lain in his arms as trusting as a child, clinging to him. Her eyes had been rapt with pleasure, joy glistening in them. Why hadn’t he known? Or was it that he hadn’t wanted to know?

      “You mustn’t let her see that you know,” Leta instructed grimly. “She is proud.”

      “Yes.” He touched his mother’s shoulder. “There are so few of us left who are full-bloods,” he said, wondering why Leta grimaced. Perhaps she’d hoped that he might marry Cecily one day, despite her pride in their heritage.

      “And you won’t marry a white girl,” she said.

      He nodded solemnly. “Audrey is costume jewelry. I wear her on my arm. She’s sophisticated and savvy and shallow. It means nothing. Just as the other handful meant nothing.”

      Leta’s eyes fell to his chest. “That isn’t all.”

      He sighed. “I’ve taken care of Cecily for eight years,” he reminded her. “Even without the cultural differences, I’m in the position of a guardian to her, whether she likes it or not. I can’t take advantage of what she feels for me.”

      “Of course you can’t.” Leta linked her fingers together. “Drive safely.”

      He pulled a small package from his jacket pocket. “Give this to her after I’m gone. It’s her birthday present.” He smiled ruefully. “We weren’t speaking, so she didn’t get it on her birthday.”

      “She may not want it.”

      He knew that. It hurt. “Try.”

      She watched him drive away down the winding dirt road that cut through to the main highway. She knew that one day soon she was going to have to share a painful truth with him. Things were happening that he didn’t know about. Things that involved herself and Matt Holden and some vicious men in chauffeured limousines and the tribal chief. It was not a prospect she relished.

      Chapter Four

      Cecily lived on dreams for a week while she tried to come to grips with the monumental change in her relationship with Tate. Even if he’d resorted to bad temper to get out of a potentially embarrassing situation, he’d felt something. Lying in his arms, feeling his hungry kisses on her mouth, the touch of his hands on her face and her throat, she could sense his hunger for her. The wonderful thing was that she hadn’t been afraid. It occurred to her that the revulsion she felt with other men wasn’t completely because of her traumatic flight from home. Part of it was because her heart was set on Tate. He was the only man for her. She’d always known that he was fond of her. Until he kissed her, though, she hadn’t known that he wanted her, too.

      But it was obvious that Tate wasn’t going to give in to his feelings, regardless of how strong they were. In a way she couldn’t blame him. They’d had this discussion before, almost two years ago, when she’d teased him about the mythical prophylactics she carried around with her. By exaggerating her feelings for him, she’d hidden them. But now, after her headlong response, he probably knew the truth. It had been, she recalled, much too obvious that she loved his kisses.