Calhoun. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You have to let go of me,” she whispered huskily, and her eyes reflected her heartbreak. “You have to, Calhoun.”
There was a lot of truth in what she said, and he didn’t really know how to respond. He worried about her. This strange restlessness of hers, this urge to run from him, wasn’t like Abby. She was melancholy, when for the past five years or more she’d been a vibrant, happy little imp, always laughing and playing with him, teasing him, making him laugh. She couldn’t know how somber the house had been when she’d first come to live with him and Justin. Justin never laughed anyway, and Calhoun had come to be like him. But Abby had brought the sunshine. She’d colored the world. He scowled down at her, wondering how she did it. She wasn’t pretty. She was plain, and she was serious a good bit of the time. But when she laughed…When she laughed, she was beautiful.
His hands contracted. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d go to conventional places,” he muttered. “First I catch you in line to watch a bunch of nude men parade around a stage, and the very next night you’re drinking gin and tonic in a bar. Why?” he asked, his deep voice soft with curiosity and concern.
She shifted. “I’m just curious about those things,” she said finally.
He searched her eyes quietly. “That isn’t it,” he replied, his own gaze narrowing. His hands shifted, gentle on her arms, Abby could feel their warmth through the fabric. “Something’s eating you alive. Can’t you tell me what it is?”
She drew in her breath. She’d almost forgotten how perceptive he was. He seemed to see right through to the bone and blood sometimes. She let her gaze drop to his chest, and she watched its lazy rise and fall under his gray vest. He was hairy under his shirt. She’d seen him once in a while on his way to or from the shower, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and run her hands over him. He had thick brown hair across his tanned chest, and it had golden tips where it curled. There was a little wave in his thick blond hair, not much, but enough that it was unruly around his ears. She let her gaze go up, feeding on him, lingering just above his dimpled chin at the thin but sensuous curve of his upper lip and the faintly square, chiseled fullness of his lower lip. He had a sexy mouth. His nose was sexy, too. Very straight and imposing. He had high cheekbones, and thick eyebrows on a jutting brow that shadowed his deep-set eyes. He had black eyes. Both the Ballengers did. But Calhoun was something to look at, and poor old Justin was as rangy-looking as a longhorn bull by comparison.
“Abby, are you listening to me?” Calhoun murmured, shaking her gently because her faintly intoxicated stare was setting his blood on fire.
Her eyes levered up to his, finding darkness in them, secrets, shadows. Her lips parted on a hopeless sigh. When Misty had told her last week about seeing him with some ravishing blonde up in Houston, it had knocked her for a loop, bringing home the true hopelessness of her situation. Calhoun liked sophisticated women. He’d never look twice at drab little Abby. Once Abby had faced that unpalatable fact, she’d been on a one-way road to misery. She’d been looking for an escape, last night and tonight, but she couldn’t find one. Wherever she turned, Calhoun was there, hounding her, not realizing how badly he was hurting her.
“What did you say?” she asked miserably.
His chest rose and fell roughly. “It’s hopeless trying to talk to you in this condition. Go to bed.”
“That’s just where I was headed,” she said.
She turned and started up the staircase ahead of him, her eyes burning with tears that she was too proud to let him see. Oh, Calhoun, she moaned inwardly, you’re killing me!
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