Page 37 of A Treasure Worth Seeking

“I mean that you have made a prize jackass out of a man old enough to know better.”

“Please, Lance, I don’t know what you mean.” She strove to be reasonable over the pounding of her pulse. “Shouldn’t we be meeting—”

“They can wait,” he snapped. “I want to have this out with you here and now.”

Her own anger was growing under the condescending tone in his voice. “Have what out with me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

To her amazement, he grinned, but the smile never reached his eyes. “You sure are being missed by that lonesome ol’ polecat, sugar,” he said in a perfect imitation of Bart’s Texas twang.

Comprehension dawned on her and she was suffused with mortification and fury. “You listened! You eavesdropped on my conversation!”

He shrugged negligently. “Habit. I listen to all the calls coming into the Lymans’ house. You knew that.”

She did, but she had forgotten. “But you knew that that particular call was for me personally. It couldn’t have been of any interest to you!”

“Oh, but it was, Miss O’Shea,” he objected smoothly. “You’d be amazed at how informative I found it to be. Now I know what a two-timing little liar you are.”

“I am not!” she denied heatedly.

“No? ‘I miss you, Bart. I love you, Bart,’ ” he mimicked. “You failed to mention to good ol’ Bart what you were doing just before he called.”

“That’s disgusting,” she spat.

“You’re damn right it is,” he shouted. “I think Bart would find it quite disgusting to learn that this morning his fiancée was learning to screw with unequaled aptitude.”

She didn’t think before she slapped him. She hadn’t even realized that she had until the sound cracked through the tense atmosphere of the car. Her palm stung, but it was worth the pain to see the stunned expression on Lance’s face. Her victory was short-lived, however, because he was galvanized into action. Reaching across the car, he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip.

“If you ever do that again, I’ll break your arm,” he threatened and she believed him. His voice sounded like he had gravel in his throat. “I know your type, Miss O’Shea.”

She winced under the pressure of his fingers on her wrist. “I’m not a type,” she argued with more spirit than she felt.

“Yes, you are,” he said with deceptive softness. “It’s fun to have a lark with the government agent, play spy games, but you know you have your Texas millionaire to go home to.”

“No,” she said. Tears of pain were streaming down her cheeks. Not physical pain from his fingers digging into her flesh, but pain from realizing the low opinion he had of her. If only he’d let her explain.

“Well, the game is over. You may enjoy slumming it with me, but I never play out of my league.”

“League?” she asked remorsefully. “Why do you think we’re in different leagues?”

“Because, dammit, you drive a white Mercedes and I drive a maroon Chevette. Doesn’t that tell you anything?” He released her wrist so abruptly that she was staggered and bumped against him in inertia. He moved away from her and stared out the opposite window.

It took several moments for his meaning to sink in. When it did, she bristled with fury. “How dare you insult me like that!” she gasped. “How dare you think it would matter to me what kind of car a man drives or how much money he has. I… I slept… slept with you because I wanted to.”

“Did you?” he asked silkily, facing her once again. He lunged toward her, pinning her against the back of the seat with his hands on her shoulders. He leaned into her. “Don’t you like the way Stanton makes love? What excuse were you going to give poor ol’ Bart on your wedding night when he found you less than pure? But then he’ll naturally assume that your husband took what by right should belong to him.”

“Stop it, please,” she sobbed.

He settled on her heavily and whispered degradingly, “When he holds you, do you mold to him like this?” She wriggled and tried to push him away, but he was too strong and the movement of his body against hers made his point for him. “When he kisses you, do you make that purring sound in your throat?”

He tried to kiss her, but she twisted her head away from him. His hand grasped her jaw and held her head immobile as his lips crushed hers brutally. She fought him, but his hold on her was unyielding. The pressure of his fingers on her jaw was so strong that she feared any moment the cracking of her bones.

“Does your body respond to him the way it does to me?”

He flung aside her coat and covered her breast with his hand. In opposition to her will, she could feel herself responding to his touch. His fingers pressed into the soft mound of flesh and then began to stroke her. What had been intended as an assault became a caress. He slipped his hand under her sweater and squeezed her until her flesh was crowded between his fingers. He unclasped her bra and captured a taut nipple with fingers no longer cruel, but dedicated to giving pleasure.

Only his mouth continued its onslaught. And gradually it, too, ceased to plunder and began to persuade. The kiss changed character so subtly that Erin wasn’t even aware of it until she heard herself moaning in acquiescence. Her lips softened and accepted the alluring power of his tongue. Her body became pliant under his exploring hands. She wasn’t even aware of saying, “Oh, Lance,” until he yanked himself away from her.

His name, recited in his ear with such disillusionment, penetrated that wall of anger and resentment he had erected since hearing her conversation with Stanton. He retreated swiftly behind the steering wheel of the car and gripped it with his hands as if to pull it away and destroy it. He rested his forehead on the backs of his hands.

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