Free A Tradition of Pride by Janet Dailey Page B

lips trail along the cord of her neck to her earlobe. "You are more beautiful than any woman I know. Darling, I want to be with you tonight."
    The hypocrisy of his words produced a reaction that his caress had not. Violently she twisted away from his exploring mouth. Her expression was a cold mask of utter rejection. His words too closely paralleled the things he had said to the brunette.
    "Don't touch me!" Lara hissed. "I can't stand to have your hands on me!"
    Trevor stared at her in disbelief, an angry frown gathering together his dark brows. He couldn't believe she honestly found his caress repulsive.
    As Lara's cold green eyes started to move their attention away from Trevor's face, they saw the tall figure standing in the entry hall outside the living-room doors. It was Rans MacQuade. How long had he been there? And how much had he overheard? All of it, Lara decided bitterly, judging from the sardonic expression in the brown eyes that held her gaze.
    What was he doing in the house? How did he get in without being heard? He appeared to be coming from her father's study. Perhaps he had arrived shortly after dinner when she had been in the kitchen helping Sara with the evening dishes.
    If that was true, then Rans had been on his way out of the house when he had seen Lara with Trevor in the living room. Her lips tightened. He had probably heard the nature of their conversation and paused to see if Lara was gong to follow his unwarranted advice and passionately welcome Trevor's advances.
    He had seen her reaction. He didn't even have the grace to look sorry or guilty that he had been eavesdropping. Angrily Lara spun away from his glittering eyes, turning away from Trevor at the same time.
    "What is wrong with you. Lara?" Trevor said finally, exhaling a heavy sigh of anger and confusion.
    She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze first seeking the figure in the hall. There was no one there. In the next second she heard the front door softly closing.
    Her gaze flicked to Trevor. "Nothing is wrong with me. I've simply stopped believing lies, that's all. Excuse me, I'm going to my room," Lara concluded, and Trevor didn't question her answer or her decision to leave the room. It was as if he sensed that she had seen through him and didn't want to be confronted with it.
    In the days that followed, Trevor didn't press his attentions on her, virtually ignoring her when they were alone. Lara decided he was trying a new ploy, hoping to gain her interest by showing none in her. He could play all the games he wanted to play, but he played them alone.
    Rans MacQuade was at the house several times, conferring with her father. Outside of a few courteous exchanges, usually in the company of her father, Lara hadn't had to suffer any of his personal remarks about her life and herself.
    His visits had produced a surge of writing by her father, filling Lara's time with typing his copious notes. A stranger to his methods would have found his notes impossible to follow since there were constant arrows, asterisks and amendments that had to be deciphered and inserted in the right places.
    Her father was in the study this evening, going over what she had typed today and no doubt filling another tablet for more to be done tomorrow. Lara turned the hand held hair dryer onto her face, letting the hot air blow over her skin.
    The night air was so heavy with humidity that she felt as sticky as she had before she had taken a shower and washed her hair. It could have been summer outside instead of spring. She ran testing fingers through her shiny hair. There was only a trace of dampness at the back of her head.
    Turning off the dryer, she put it back in its box and carried it to the closet. Lara paused at the open window overlooking the pine woods at the rear of the house. A faint breeze gently stirred the needles, hardly a breath of it entering the room. A moth beat its wings against the screen, seeking the light from her bedside lamp.
    With so much typing