Heartbreaker by Linda Howard Page B

naturally to hell-raisers and heartbreakers, and Rafferty was
both.
    She knew the exact moment when he entered the
kitchen, though her back was to him. Her skin suddenly tingled, as if the air
had become charged, and the house no longer seemed so cool.
    "Let me see your hand." He was so
close behind her that she couldn't turn without pressing against him, so she
remained where she was. He took her left hand in his and lifted it.
    "They're just scratches," she
muttered.
    She was right, but admitting it didn't
diminish his anger. She shouldn't have any scratches at all; she shouldn't be
trying to repair fencing. Her hand lay in his bigger, harder one like a pale,
fragile bird, too tired to take flight, and suddenly he knew that the image was
exactly right. She was tired.
    He reached around her to turn on the water,
then thoroughly soaped and rinsed her hand. Michelle hurriedly set the water
glass aside, before it slipped from her trembling fingers, then stood
motionless, with her head bowed. He was very warm against her back; she fek
completely surrounded by him, with his arms around her while he washed her hand
with the gentleness a mother would use to wash an infant. That gentleness
staggered her senses, and she kept her head bent precisely to prevent herself
from letting it drop back against his shoulder to let him support her.
    The soap was rinsed off her hand now, but
still he held it under the running water, his fingers lightly stroking. She
quivered, trying to deny the sensuality of his touch. He was just washing her
hand! The water was warm, but his hand was warmer, the rough calluses rasping
against her flesh as he stroked her with a lover's touch. His thumb traced
circles on her sensitive palm, and Michelle felt her entire body tighten. Her
pulse leaped, flooding her with warmth. "Don't," she said thickly,
trying unsuccessfully to pull free.
    He turned off the water with his right hand,
then moved it to her stomach and spread his fingers wide, pressing her back
against his body. His hand was wet; she felt the dampness seeping through her
shirt in front, and the searing heat of him at her back. The smell of horse and
man rose from that seductive heat. Everything about the man was a come-on,
luring women to him.
    "Turn around and kiss me," he said,
his voice low, daring her to do it.
    She shook her head and remained silent, her
head bent.
    He didn't push it, though they both knew that
if he had, she wouldn't have been able to resist him. Instead he dried her hand,
then led her to the downstairs bathroom and made her sit on the lid of the
toilet while he thoroughly cleaned the scratches with antiseptic. Michelle
didn't flinch from the stinging; what did a few scratches matter, when she was
going to lose the ranch? She had no other home, no other place she wanted to
be. After being virtually imprisoned in that plush penthouse in Philadelphia , she needed the feeling of space around her. The
thought of living in a city again made her feel stifled and panicky, and she
would have to live in some city somewhere to get a job, since she didn't even
have a car to commute. The old truck in the barn wouldn't hold up to a long
drive on a daily basis.
    John watched her face closely; she was
distracted about something, or she would never have let him tend her hand the
way he had. After all, it was something she could easily have done herself, and
he'd done it merely to have an excuse to touch her. He wanted to know what she
was thinking, why she insisted on working this ranch when it had to be obvious
even to her that it was more than she could handle. It simply wasn't in
character for her.
    "When do you want the money?" she
asked dully.
    His mouth tightened as he straightened and
pulled her to her feet. "Money isn't what I want," he replied.
    Her eyes flashed with green fire as she
looked at him. "I'm not turning myself into a whore, even for you! Did you
think I'd jump at the chance to sleep with you? Your reputation must be