Dear Reader,
I really can’t express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Harlequin Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.
But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You can’t imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.
I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Harlequin Books—from my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.
Thank you for this tribute, Harlequin, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.
Diana Palmer
DIANA PALMER
The prolific author of more than a hundred books, Diana Palmer got her start as a newspaper reporter. A multi–New York Times bestselling author and one of the top ten romance writers in America, she has a gift for telling the most sensual tales with charm and humor. Diana lives with her family in Cornelia, Georgia.
Visit her website at www.DianaPalmer.com.
Donavan
Diana Palmer
For a special reader—Peggy
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Fay felt as if every eye in the bar was on her when she walked in. It had been purely an impulse, and she was already regretting it. A lone female walking into a bar on the wrong side of town in south Texas late at night was asking for trouble. Women’s lib hadn’t been heard of this far out, and several pairs of male eyes were telling her so.
She could only imagine how she looked in her tight designer jeans, her feet encased in silk hose and high heels, a soft yellow knit sweater showing the faint swell of her high breasts. Her long dark hair was around her shoulders in soft swirls, and her green eyes darted nervously from one side of the small, smoke-filled room to the other. There was a jukebox playing so loud that she had to yell to tell the bartender she wanted a beer. That was a joke, too, because in all her twenty years, she’d never had a beer. White wine, yes. Even a piña colada down in Jamaica. But never a beer.
Defiance was becoming expensive, she thought, watching a burly man separate himself from his companions with a mumbled remark that made them laugh.
He perched himself beside her at the bar, his narrow eyes giving her an appraisal that made her want to run. “Hello, pretty thing,” he said, grinning through his beard. “Wanta dance?”
She cupped her hands around the beer mug to stop them from shaking. “No, thank you,” she said in her soft, cultured voice, keeping her eyes down. “I’m…waiting for someone.”
That was almost true. She’d been waiting for someone all her life, but he hadn’t shown up yet. She needed him now. She was living with a mercenary, social-climbing relative who was doing his best to sell her to a rich friend with eyes that made her skin crawl. All her money was tied up in trust, and she was stuck with her mother’s brother. Rescue was certainly uppermost in her mind, but this rowdy cowboy wasn’t her idea of a white knight.
“You and me could have a good time, honey,” her admirer continued, unabashed. He smoothed her sweater-clad arm and she withdrew as if his fingers were snakes. “Now, don’t start backing away, sweet thing! I know how to treat a lady.”
No one noticed the dark face in the corner suddenly lift, or saw the dangerous glitter in silver eyes that dominated it. No one noticed the look he gave the girl, or the colder one that he gave her companion before he got gracefully to his feet and moved toward the bar.
He wore jeans, too. Not like Fay’s, because his were working jeans. They were faded and stained from work, and his boots were a howling thumbed nose at city cowboys’ elegant footwear. His hat was blacker than his thick, unruly hair, a little crumpled here and there. He was tall. Very tall. Lean and muscular and quite well-known locally. His temper, in fact, was as legendary as the big fists now curled with deceptive laxness at his sides as he walked.
“You’d like me if you just got to know me—” The pudgy cowboy broke off when the newcomer came into his line of vision. He became almost comically still, his head slightly cocked. “Why, hello, Donavan,” he began uneasily. “I didn’t know she was with you.”
“Now you do,” he replied in a deep, gravelly voice that sent chills down Fay’s spine.
She turned her head and looked into diamond-glinted eyes, and lost her heart forever. She couldn’t seem to breathe.
“It’s about time you showed up,” he told Fay. He took her arm, eased her down from the bar stool with a grip that was firm and exciting. He handed her beer mug to her, and with a last cutting glare at the other man, he escorted her back to his table.
“Thank you,” she stammered when she was sitting beside him. He’d left a cigarette smoking in the dented metal ashtray, and a half-touched glass of whiskey. He didn’t take off his hat when he sat down. She’d noticed that Western men seemed to have little use for the courtesies she’d taken for granted back home.
He picked up his cigarette and took a long draw from it. His nails were flat and clean, despite traces of grease that clung to his long-fingered, dark hands. They were beautiful masculine hands, with no jewelry adorning them. Working hands, she thought idly.
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m Fay,” she told him. She forced a smile. “And you…?”
“Most people just call me Donavan.”
She took a sip of beer and grimaced. It tasted terrible. She stared at it with an expression that brought a faint smile to the man’s hard, thin mouth.
“You don’t drink beer, and you don’t belong in a bar. What are you doing on this side of town, debutante?” he drawled.
“I’m running away from home,” she said with a laugh. “Escaping my jailers. Having a night on the town. Rebelling. Take your pick.”
“Are you old enough to do that?” he asked pointedly.
“If you mean, am I old enough to order a beer in a bar, yes. I’m two months shy of twenty-one.”
“You don’t look it.”
She studied his hard, suntanned face and his unruly hair. With a little trimming up and proper dressing, he might be rather devastating.