Free Paradise County by Karen Robards Page A

on his close-cropped black hair. His skin was very tan, as though he spent a great deal of time outdoors, and roughened by the heavy growth of five-o’clock shadow that darkened his jaw. The sheer size of the man seemed to shrink the room. Unwillingly, she registered his blatantly masculine appeal, and rejected it. As the saying went, pretty is as pretty does, which left this man looking like a warthog. “How did you get in here, anyway? Did you even knock? Or is it the custom around here for people to just barge into other people’s houses without an invitation?”
    “Inez let me in. And yes, I did knock. Go ahead and cry if you want to. I can wait.”
    The hateful man was watching her as if he really did expect her to burst into tears before his eyes. Her chin came up a notch, and she took a deep, steadying breath.
    “All right, Mr. Welch, since you don’t have the good manners to go away when you’re asked to, let’s get this over with: Why are you here?”
    He was studying her with more attention than she welcomed, given the fact that her eyes still felt raw and kind of tingly and were, she suspected, red around the rims. With her hair pulled back and the high collar of her black turtleneck framing her features, she felt uncomfortably exposed.
    “If he broke the news to you over the phone just now, he’s not worth crying over, believe me.”
    “I have no intention of discussing my private life with you. I wouldn’t have said as much as I did if you hadn’t barged in here and caught me by surprise.” The tears had receded now, and she was embarrassed to think that he had seen signs of them. Ordinarily, she never cried. It was something she prided herself on. From a girlhood spent first with a procession of indifferent nannies and then at a series of impersonal boarding schools, she had learned that crying never fixed anything. All it did was give one red eyes and a stuffy nose. Besides, her father had hated weepy women. He had divorced two wives because, he said, they were forever bursting into tears when he did something they didn’t like.
    At the thought of her father pain stirred anew. She never cried—but she had cried a river for him.
    “I’m not interested in your private life, Miss Haywood. What I am interested in is Whistledown Farm.”
    Alex frowned direly. Looking up at him was making her neck stiff, but if she stood she feared her knees might give way. She needed to be alone, needed time to assess the damage Paul had inflicted on her and paper over the fresh rent it had made in her already lacerated heart. If it killed her, the picture she presented to the world was not going to be one of caterwauling defeat. She would hold her head high and keep putting one foot in front of the other until things got better or until the end of time, whichever came first.
    At this point, she was about ready to put her money on the end of time.
    “If you’re here to try to talk me into changing my mind,” she said, “don’t bother. What I said earlier stands.”
    His gaze assessed her. His jaw tightened, and his eyes grew bright and hard.
    “’Fraid not, Princess. I have a contract.”
    Alex gave a brittle laugh. “This is getting annoying, Mr. Welch. Exactly what part of you’re fired don’t you understand?”
    “That’s precisely my point. You can’t fire me. Like I said, I have a contract. You know, one of those legal instruments between a party of the first part and a party of the second part? You can’t just give me thirty days’ notice and tell me to sell all the horses and then shove off.” There was a hint of triumph in his voice. “It doesn’t work that way.”
    Alex stared at him. Gritting her teeth, she mentally counted to ten.
    “Go away,” she said, slowly and distinctly.
    “Are you hearing what I’m telling you?” His voice was rough, impatient, as he totally disregarded her words. His gaze was hard on her face. “I have a contract allowing me to manage Whistledown Farm as I