Dear Reader,
I really canât express how flattered I am and also how grateful I am to Harlequin Books for releasing this collection of my published works. It came as a great surprise. I never think of myself as writing books that are collectible. In fact, there are days when I forget that writing is work at all. What I do for a living is so much fun that it never seems like a job. And since I reside in a small community, and my daily life is confined to such mundane things as feeding the wild birds and looking after my herb patch in the backyard, I feel rather unconnected from what many would think of as a glamorous profession.
But when I read my email, or when I get letters from readers, or when I go on signing trips to bookstores to meet all of you, I feel truly blessed. Over the past thirty years I have made lasting friendships with many of you. And quite frankly, most of you are like part of my family. You canât imagine how much you enrich my life. Thank you so much.
I also need to extend thanks to my family (my husband, James, son, Blayne, daughter-in-law, Christina, and granddaughter, Selena Marie), to my best friend, Ann, to my readers, booksellers and the wonderful people at Harlequin Booksâfrom my editor of many years, Tara, to all the other fine and talented people who make up our publishing house. Thanks to all of you for making this job and my private life so worth living.
Thank you for this tribute, Harlequin, and for putting up with me for thirty long years! Love to all of you.
Diana Palmer
The tall, silver-haired man stood quietly apart from the rest of the mourners, his eyes, narrowed and contemptuous, on the slender, black-clad figure beside his sister. His cousin Barry was dead, and that woman was responsible. Not only had she tormented her husband of two years into alcoholism, but sheâd allowed him to get behind the wheel of a car when he was drunk and heâd gone off a bridge to his death. And there she stood, four million dollars richer, without a single tear in her eyes. She looked completely untouchableâand Ted Regan knew that she had been, as far as her husband had been concerned.
His sister noticed his cold stare and left the widowâs side to join him.
âStop glaring at her. How can you be so unfeeling?â Sandy asked angrily. His sister had dark hair. At forty, he was fifteen years older than she, and prematurely gray. They shared the same pale blue eyes, though, and the same temper.
âAm I being unfeeling?â he asked with a careless smile, and raised his smoking cigarette to his mouth.
âYou promised you were going to give that up,â she reminded him.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. âI did. I only smoke when Iâm under a lot of stress, and only outdoors.â
âI wasnât worried about secondhand smoke. Youâre my brother, and I care about you,â she said simply.
He smiled, and his hand touched her face briefly. âIâll try to quit. Again,â he said wryly. He glanced at the widow with cold eyes. âSheâs a case, isnât she? I havenât seen a single tear. They were married for two years.â
âNobody knows what goes on inside a marriage, Ted,â she reminded him quietly.
âI suppose not,â he mused. âIâve never wanted to marry anybody, but it seems to work out for a few people.â
âLike the Ballengers here in Jacobsville,â she agreed with a smile. âThey go on forever. I envy them.â
Ted wasnât going to touch that line with a pole. He drew on the cigarette, and his harsh gaze went back to the heavily veiled woman by the black limousine.
âWhy the veil?â he asked coldly. âIs she afraid Barryâs mother may wonder why there arenât any tears in her big blue eyes?â
âYouâre so cynical and harsh, Ted, itâs no wonder to me that youâve never married,â she said with resignation. âIâve heard people say that no woman in south Texas would be brave enough to take you on!â
âThereâs no woman in south Texas that Iâd have,â he countered.
âLeast of all, Coreen Tarleton,â she added for him, because the way he was looking at her best friend spoke volumes.
âSheâs even younger than you,â he said curtly. âTwenty-four to my forty,â he added quietly. âYears too young for me, even if I were interested. Which I am not,â he added with a speaking glance.
âShe isnât what you think,â Sandy said.
âIâm glad youâre loyal to the people you love, tidbit, but youâre never going to convince me that the merry widow over there is grieving.â