Donavan

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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. “Are you from around here?” she asked.

“All my life,” he agreed.

“Do you…work?”

“Child, in this part of Texas, everybody works.” He scowled. “Most everybody,” he amended, letting his eyes linger pointedly on her diamond tennis bracelet. “Wearing that into a country bar is asking for trouble. Pull your sleeve down.”

She did, obeying him instantly when she was known for ignoring anything that sounded like a command at home. She flushed at her instant deference. Maybe she was drunk already. Sure, she mused, on two sips of beer.

“What do you do when you aren’t giving orders?” she taunted.

He searched her green eyes. “I’m a ranch foreman,” he said. “I give orders for a living.”

“Oh. You’re a cowboy.”

“That’s one name for it.”

She smiled again. “I’ve never met a real cowboy before.”

“You aren’t from here.”

She shook her head. “Georgia. My parents were killed in a plane crash, so I was sent out here to live with my uncle.” She whistled softly. “You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

“Get out,” he said simply. “People live in prisons out of choice. You can always walk away from a situation you don’t care for.”

“Want to bet? I’m rich,” she said curtly. “Filthy rich. But it’s all tied up in a trust that I can’t touch until I’m twenty-one, and my uncle is hoping to marry me off to a business associate in time to get his hands on some of it.”

“Are you for real?” he asked. He picked up the whiskey glass and took a sip, putting the glass down with a sharp movement of his hand. “Tell him to go to hell and do what you please. At your age I was working for myself, not for any relatives.”

“You’re a man,” she pointed out.

“What difference does that make?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever heard of women’s lib?”

She smiled. At least one person in the bar had heard of women’s lib. “I’m not that kind of woman. I’m wimpy.”

“Listen, lady, no wimpy girl walks into a place like this in the middle of the night and orders a beer.”

She laughed, her green eyes brilliant. “Yes, she does, when she’s driven to it. Besides, it was safe, wasn’t it? You were here.”

He lifted his chin and a different light came into the pale, silvery eyes. “And you think I’m safe,” he murmured. “Or, more precisely, that you’re safe with me?”

Her heart began to thud against her ribs. That was a very adult look in his eyes, and she noticed the corresponding drop of his voice into a silky, soft purr. Her lips parted as she let out the breath she was holding.

“I hope I am,” she said after a minute. “Because I’ve done a stupid thing and even though I might deserve a hard time, I’m hoping you won’t give me one.”

He smiled, and this time it was without mockery. “Good girl. You’re learning.”

“Is it a lesson?” she asked.

He drained the whiskey glass. “Life is all lessons. The ones you don’t learn right off the bat, you have to repeat. Get up. I’ll drive you home.”

“Must you?” she asked, sighing. “It’s the first adventure I’ve ever had, and it may be the last.”

He cocked his hat over one eye and looked down at her. “In that case, I’ll do my best to make it memorable,” he murmured dryly. He held out a lean, strong hand and pulled her up when she took it. “Are you game?”

She was feeling her way with him, but oddly, she trusted him. She smiled. “I’m game.”

He nodded. He took her arm and guided her out the door. She noticed a few looks that came their way, but no one tried to distract him.

“People seem to know you in there,” she remarked when they were outside in the cool night air.

“They know me,” he returned. “I’ve treed that bar a time or two.”

“Treed it?”

He glanced down at her. “Broken it up in a brawl. Men get into trouble, young lady, and women aren’t always handy to get them out of it.”

“I’m not really handy,” she said hesitantly.

He chuckled. “Honey, what you are is written all over you in green ink. I don’t mind a little adventure, but that’s all you’ll get from me.” His silvery eyes narrowed. “If you stay around here long enough, you’ll learn that I don’t like rich women, and you’ll learn why. But for tonight, I’m in a generous mood.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He laughed without humor. “I don’t suppose you do.” He eyed her intently. “You aren’t safe to be let out.”

“That’s what everybody keeps saying.” She smiled with what she hoped was sophistication. “But how will I learn anything about life if I’m kept in a glass bowl?”

His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’ve got a head start already.” He tugged her along to a raunchy gray pickup truck with dents all over it. “I hope you weren’t expecting a Rolls-Royce, debutante. I could hardly haul cattle in one.”

She felt terrible. She actually winced as she looked up at him, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the dry remark that was meant to be funny.

“Oh, I don’t care what you drive,” she said honestly. “You could be riding a horse, and it wouldn’t matter. I don’t judge people by what they have.”

His pale eyes slid over her face lightly. “I think I knew that already,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I meant it as a joke. Here. Don’t cut yourself on that spring. It popped out and I haven’t had time to fix it.”

“Okay.” She bounced into the cab and he closed the door. It smelled of the whole outdoors, and when he got in, it smelled of leather and smoke. He glanced at her and smiled.

He started the truck and glanced at her. “Did you drive here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He paused to look around the parking lot, pursing his lips with faint amusement when he saw the regal blue Mercedes-Benz sitting among the dented pickup trucks and dusty four-wheel-drive vehicles.

“That’s right, you don’t need to ask what I drove here in,” she muttered self-consciously. “And yes, it’s mine.”

He chuckled. “Bristling already, and we’ve only just met,” he murmured as he pulled out into the road. “What do you do when you aren’t trying to pick up strange men in bars?”

She glared at him. “I study piano, paint a little and generally try to stay sane through endless dinner parties and morning coffees.”

He whistled through his teeth. “Some life.”

She turned in the seat, liking the strength of his profile. “What do you do?”

“Chase cattle, mostly. Figure percentages, decide which cattle to cull, hire and fire cowboys, go to conferences, make financial decisions.” He glanced at her. “Occasionally I sit on the board of directors of two corporations.”

She frowned slightly. “I thought you said you were a foreman.”

“There’s a little more to it than that,” he said comfortably. “You don’t need to know the rest. Where do you want to go?”

She had to readjust her thinking from the abrupt statement. She glanced out the dark window at the flat south Texas landscape. “Well…I don’t know. I just don’t want to go home.”

“They’re having a fiesta down in San Moreno,” he said with an amused glance. “Ever been to one?”

“No!” Her eyes brightened. “Could we?”

“I don’t see why not. There isn’t much to do except dance, though, and drink beer. Do you dance?”

“Oh, yes. Do you?”

He chuckled. “I can when forced into it. But you may have trouble with the beer part.”

“I learned to like caviar,” she said. “Maybe I can learn to like beer.”

He didn’t comment. He turned on the radio and country-western music filled the cab. She leaned her head back on the seat and smiled as she closed her eyes. Incredible, she thought, how much she trusted this man when she’d only just met him. She felt as though she’d known him for years.

The feeling continued when they got to the small, dusty town of San Moreno. A band of mariachis was playing loud, lively Mexican music while people danced in the roped-off main square. Vendors sold everything from beer to tequila and chimichangas and tacos. The music was loud, the beer was hot, but nobody seemed to mind. Most of the people were Mexican-American, although Fay noticed a few cowboys among the celebrants.

“What are we celebrating?” Fay asked breathlessly as Donavan swung her around and around to the quick beat of the music.

“Who cares?” He chuckled.

She shook her head. In all her life, she couldn’t remember being so happy or feeling so carefree. If she died tomorrow, it would be worth it, because she had tonight to remember. So she drank warm beer that tasted better with each sip, and she danced in Donavan’s lean, strong arms, and rested against his muscular chest and breathed in the scent of him until she was more drunk on the man than the liquor.

Finally the frantic pace died down and there was a slow two-step. She melted into Donavan, sliding her arms around him with the kind of familiarity that usually came from weeks of togetherness. She seemed to fit against him, like a soft glove. He smelled of tobacco and beer and the whole outdoors, and the feel of his body so close to hers was delightfully exciting. His arms enfolded her, both of them wrapped close around her, and for a few minutes there was nobody else in the world. She heard the music as if through a fog of pure pleasure, her body reacting to the closeness of his in a way it had never reacted before. She felt a tension that was disturbing, and a kind of throbbing ache in her lower body that she’d never experienced. Being close to him was becoming intolerable. She caught her breath and pulled away a little, raising eyes full of curious apprehension to his.

He searched her face quietly, aware of her fear and equally aware of the cause of it. He smiled gently. “It’s all right,” he said quietly.

She frowned. “I…I don’t quite understand what’s wrong with me,” she whispered. “Maybe the beer…”

“There’s no need to pretend. Not with me.” He framed her face in his lean hands and bent, pressing a tender kiss against her forehead. “We’d better go.”

“Must we?” she sighed.

He nodded. “It’s late.” He caught her hand in his and tugged her along to the truck. He was feeling something of the same reckless excitement she was, except that he was older and more adept at controlling it. He knew that she’d wanted him while they were dancing, but things were getting ahead of him. He didn’t need a rich society girl in his life. God knew, one had been the ruin of his family. People around Jacobsville, Texas, still remembered how his father had gone pell-mell after a local debutante without any scruples about how he forced her to marry him, right on the heels of his wife’s funeral, too. Donavan had turned bitter trying to live down the family scandal. Miss High Society here would find it out eventually. Better not to start something he couldn’t finish, even if she did cause an inconvenient ache in his body. No doubt she’d had half a dozen men, but she might be addictive—and he couldn’t risk finding out she was.

She was pleasantly relaxed when they got back to the deserted bar where she’d left her Mercedes. The spell had worn off a little, and her head had cleared. But with that return to reality came the unpleasantness of having to go home and face the music. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going, and they were going to be angry. Really angry.

“Thank you,” she said simply, turning to Donavan after she unlocked her car. “It was a magical night.”

“For me, too.” He opened the door for her. “Stay out of my part of town, debutante,” he said gently. “You don’t belong here.”

Her green eyes searched his gray ones. “I hate my life,” she said.

“Change it,” he replied. “You can if you want to.”

“I’m not used to fighting.”

“Get used to it. Life doesn’t give, it takes. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.”

“So they say.” She toyed with her car keys. “But in my world, the fighting gets dirty.”

“It does in mine, too. That never stopped me. Don’t let it stop you.”

She lowered her eyes to the hard chest that had pillowed her head while they danced. “I won’t forget you.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” he murmured dryly, flicking a long strand of hair away from her face. “I’m not looking for complications or ties. Not ever. Your world and mine wouldn’t mix. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“You just told me to,” she pointed out, lifting her face to his.

“Not in my direction,” he emphasized. He smiled at her. The action made him look younger, less formidable. “Go home.”

She sighed. “I guess I should. You wouldn’t like to kiss me good-night, I guess?” she added with lifted eyebrows.

“I would,” he replied. “Which is why I’m not going to. Get in the car.”

“Men,” she muttered. She glared at him, but she got into the car and closed the door.

“Drive carefully,” he said. “And wear your seat belt.”

She fastened it, but not because of his order—she usually wore a seat belt. She spared him one long, last look before she started the car and pulled away. When she drove onto the main highway, he was already driving off in the other direction, and without looking back. She felt a sense of loss that shocked her, as if she’d given up part of herself. Maybe she had. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so close to another human being.

Her father and mother had never been really close to her. They’d had their own independent lives, and they almost never included her in any of their activities. She’d grown up with housekeepers and governesses for companionship, and with no brothers or sisters for company. From lonely child to lonely woman, she’d gone through the motions of living. But she’d never felt that anyone would really mind if she died.

That hadn’t changed when she’d come out to Jacobsville, Texas, to live with her mother’s brother, Uncle Henry Rollins. He wasn’t well-to-do, but he wanted to be. He wasn’t above using his control over Fay’s estate to provide the means to entertain. Fay hadn’t protested, but she’d just realized tonight how lax she’d been in looking out for her own interests. Uncle Henry had invited his business partner to supper and hadn’t told Fay until the last minute. She was tired of having Sean thrown at her, and she’d rebelled, running out the door to her car.

It had been almost comical, bowlegged Uncle Henry rushing after her, huffing and puffing as he tried to match his bulk to her slender swiftness and lost. She hadn’t known where she was going, but she’d wound up at the bar. Fate had sent her there, perhaps, to a man who made her see what a docile child she’d become, when she was an independent woman. Well, things were going to change. Starting now.

Donavan had fascinated her. She tingled, just remembering how he hadn’t even had to lift a hand in the bar to make the man who’d been worrying her back down. He was the stuff of which romantic fantasies were made. But he didn’t like rich women.

It would be nice, she thought, if Donavan had fallen madly in love with her and started searching for her. That would be improbable, though, since he didn’t have a clue as to her real identity. She didn’t know his, either, come to think of it; all she knew was what he did for a living. But he could have been stretching the truth a little. He hadn’t sounded quite forceful when he’d said he was a foreman.

Well, it didn’t really matter, she thought sadly. She’d never see him again. But it had been a memorable meeting altogether, and she knew she’d never forget him. Not ever.

Chapter 2

The feedlot office was quiet, and Fay York was grateful for the respite. It had been a hectic two weeks since she started this, her first job. She was still faintly amazed at her own courage and grit, because she’d never thought she’d be able to actually do it. She’d surprised her uncle Henry as much as herself when she’d announced her plans to get a job and become independent until her inheritance came through.

It had been because of Donavan that she’d done it. Her evening with him had changed her life. He’d made it possible for her to believe in herself. He’d given her a kind of self-confidence that she hadn’t thought possible.

But it hadn’t been easy, and she’d been scared to death the morning she’d walked into the office of the gigantic Ballenger feedlot to ask for a job.

Barry Holman, the local attorney who was to handle her inheritance, had suggested that she see Justin Ballenger about work, because his secretary was out having a baby and Calhoun Ballenger’s wife, Abby, had been reluctantly filling in.