Amelia Read Free

its expressiveness. King could say more with a look than his brother could with a dictionary. His temper, like his courage, were legendary in this part of Texas.
    He was wearing a dark suit, and against it his white shirt emphasized the olive of his complexion. He was a striking man. He didn't have Alan's good looks or the craggy ones of his father. But there was something in that face that made women want to crawl to him. Amelia had seen them simper around him for years and hated his arrogance and sensuality. She hated knowing that he could have any woman he wanted; especially since he made it so apparent that he didn't want Amelia.
    "Watch where you're going, can't you?" he asked curtly.
    "Sorry," she said demurely and went to move away.
    Surprisingly, his hands tightened on her soft upper arms. "What were you doing in there?" he asked suspiciously, jerking his head toward Marie's bedroom.
    She lifted both eyebrows. "Pilfering jewels?" she suggested with a smile.
    He scowled.
    "I was reading the girls to sleep," she said quickly. She hadn't meant to give voice to her sense of humor.
    "They speak very little English."
    He thought her a liar as well as a thief. What else could she expect? "
Mais, je parle français, monsieur
," she told him. Mischievously she added, "
Je ne vous aime pas. Je pense que vous êtes un animal
."
    His head moved. Just a little. Just a fraction. Something changed in his silver eyes. "
C'est vrai
?" he replied softly.
    Blushing furiously, she jumped away from him. He let her go without protest, and she took to her heels, running pell-mell down the hall to her own room. She darted in it and closed the door, locking it as an afterthought. Her face was scarlet. Why hadn't she realized that such an educated man might have a knowledge of languages past the requisite Greek and Latin? Certainly King Culhane spoke enough French to understand that she'd said she didn't like him and that he was an animal. She didn't know how she was going to face him!
    Of course she had to eventually. She couldn't hide in her room during after-dinner coffee. And while she might have betrayed a little knowledge of French, at least she hadn't disgraced herself by addressing him in the familiar tense.. She adjusted her white lace blouse in the waistband of her long black skirt and tucked wisps of hair back into her high coiffure. She winced at her own pale reflection in the mirror and wished she hadn't been quite so forthcoming.
    Enid and Marie and Hartwell Howard were nibbling on the delicate Napoleon pastries that had been served with their coffee when Amelia joined them in the parlor.
    Her dark-faced, mustachioed father gave her a cursory appraisal. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his cheeks were red—a dangerous sign. Amelia gave thanks that she wasn't alone with him. "Where have you been, miss?" he asked angrily. "Is this any way to behave in company?"
    "I do beg your pardon," Amelia said softly, placating him as usual, keeping her eyes lowered as she sat beside Marie and Enid, almost trembling with nerves. "I was detained."
    "Mind your manners," her father repeated.
    "Yes, Papa."
    Alan came into the room with King and their father. All three men were wearing dark suits, but King looked impeccably elegant in his, while Alan looked uncomfortable. Brant, as usual, was the picture of the country gentleman.
    "Your father mentioned that you play the piano, Miss Howard," Brant addressed her, smiling. He was very like Alan, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with an olive complexion. He and Alan were tall, but King towered over them both. King's eyes were a light, silvery gray, deep set with thick lashes. His face was more angular and lean than those of the other men in his family, square-jawed with a straight nose and high cheekbones. He had a lithe, predatory way of walking that made Amelia's heart race.
    "Of course she plays," Hartwell answered for his daughter. He gestured toward the spinet. "Play some Beethoven,