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Delaney was always solid on her owntwo feet,planted right where they belonged in Kansas soil, and yetshe actually feltdizzyas she stared up atthe man before her.As if he was doing something more than simplystanding there next tothat obnoxiously glossySUV that still gleamed as if thecountry roadshadn’t dared get any dirt on it.
It wasn’t that she thought the creature before her was the right sort of man. It wasn’t like that, no matter that her body was doingall kinds of bizarre things.Too hot. Too cold. Fluttery, for some reason.As if he was so beautiful that human eyes were not meant to behold him.
Maybe she was coming down with the flu.
Besides, she doubted very mucha man likethiseven knew whatafarm was.He likely looked down the not inconsiderable length of his own body and saw nothing but dirt. Delaney had no use for such people.
She told herself that. Repeatedly.
Still, she couldn’tseem to bring herself to look away from him.Maybe it was thelovingway the sun fell over him, calling attention to the crisp black suit he wore that should have made him lookas if he was attending a funeral. Yet it did not—or not the sort of funeral Delaney had ever attended around here, anyway. Maybe it was the way he heldhimself that made her think of the neighbors’ prize bull. Neverquite at rest,alwaysrippling with that ferocious power right beneath the surface thatcould erupt atany moment...
Though she associated the sort of suit he was wearing with men in magazines, always too angular and wee to her mind,he wasn’t either of those things, either. He was powerfully built, asymphonyof lean muscle in a tall framethat made her breath feel a little short.
She had the sudden, strange conviction that this was a man who was well used to people looking up at him the way she was.
He was wearing dark glasses,butas she stood there gaping at him,he shifted them from his eyes.He did not shove them on the top of his head, or even on the back of his head, the way folks often did around here. He slid them into the lapel pocket of that suit of his, a small, simple gesture that made clear the breadth ofhis sophistication. She couldn’t have said why. Only that it was as obvious as the width of his shoulders, the power in his chest, all the rest of him cast in stoneand dark glory.
And Delaney should have laughed at herself for even thinking something like that. Dark glory. It was so melodramatic. It was so unlike her.
But then, it was almost too much to look upon his bare face.It was almosttoo much.
It was as if he’d been carved, not born.As if he’d been sculpted in a fury,bold lines and a forbidding palette.She thought of stone again, immovable.The harnessed power of great, wild animals.And some kind of hawk, too, fierce and commandingas he peered at her.
The man was...a lot.
“Wow,” Delaney said, the word coming out of hermouthofitsown accord. “Who are you? Are you lost?”
That was the only thing that made sense. That he was lost, out here in theprairie in his conspicuous caravan to God only knew where. That he’d turned in to ask for directions,perhaps—though thatwas hilarious in its own way. Since he looked like a man who wouldknowwhere he was, always. As if he was his own compass in all things.
She was vaguely aware that other doors were opening, and other peoplewerecoming out of the gleamingvehicles, but she couldn’t seem tolook away from the manbefore her.She feltas if she was caught, somehow.As if hewas deliberately holding her where she stood. There was something about his burnt gold gazethatnailed her to the spot. Andthoughit wasn’t even warm, she could feel herself heat up—even as a strange shiver worked its way from the nape of her neck all the way down her spine.
Dark glorywas the only term that fit.
“You are called Delaney Clark,” the man said.
“I am,” shereplied, because it seemed important that she answer him immediately. And only when she had did it occur to her that he hadn’t actually asked her a question.
That had been a statement. As ifhe already knew her when she knew she most certainly did not knowhim.
Thatshould havebeen a huge red flag, but all Delaney could seem to think about wasdark gloryandthe way he spoke. That was certainly no Kansas accent. It was as if his words hada particularspice to them,and the way he said her name—
Get a grip, girl,she ordered herself.Before you start drooling on the man.
She was embarrassed at the very idea.
But she didn’t step back.
“I see it,” the man pronounced. And Delaney was aware, then, that he was making some kind of declaration. More, that all the people he brought with him were making murmuring noises as they gazed at her, as if that declarationmeant something to them. Something intense. “The cheekbones.The mouth. And of course, the eyes. She has a look of theMontaignes.”
Again, there were more murmuring noisesof assent. And awe, if she wasn’t mistaken. And Delaney was still standing there in her overalls, with dirt all over her, allowing this strange moment to drag on. Because she didn’t know quite what to do. Or what to say.
Or maybe because this man was toodarklybeautifuland it turned outshe was a silly little farm girl after all. That was how she felt, which was novel in its own right, because she had never beensilly.Surely she could come up with something to say that wasn’tdark gloryor the neighbors’ bull.
“Whoareyou?” she asked again.
Not exactly an improvement, though not as bad as it could have been. Delaney realized how dazed she waswhen the men flanking himstepped forward. Because she hadn’t even seen themfall into place like that. But there they were, clearly...bodyguardinghim.
In response, the man himself...barely moved. He did something with his head. Maybe inclined it slightly. Maybe shook it? But either way, the men froze on either side of him, as if he’d stopped them with his own hands.
