One More Chance Read online

  One More Chance

  By

  Ruth Jean Dale

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  "Have you ever made love in a hayloft?"

  Ben turned Juliana in his embrace so she could see the silver moonlight spilling through the open loft doors. "Of course, this isn't hay. It's straw. You'd have to be a masochist to sleep on hay."

  "I might be willing to try, if that's the only way I could—" She choked on the words.

  "Say it." He massaged her arms, raising gooseflesh. "Say anything you want."

  Juliana drew in a shaky breath. "If that's the only way I could have you, Ben. The way I feel right now, I could lie on a bed of nails. I don't know what's happening to me."

  She clutched the hem of her shirt and drew it smoothly over her head. "All I know is that I'm mad for you…"

  His low, languid laughter skittered along her nerve endings. "You're a greedy little thing, once you make up your mind." Ben scooped her up and lay her down on a pile of straw, then began to throw off his clothing.

  In exquisite anticipation, Juliana lifted her arms to him… tinder awaiting his match.

  Ruth Jean Dale is a remarkable woman. Like the heroine of One More Chance, she survived a brain aneurysm and fought her way out of that trauma with a vengeance. A longtime newspaper editor, Ruth launched a brilliant second career as a romance writer, with astonishing rapidity creating one gem after another for Harlequin Temptation. This is her third novel in two years, with many more to come.

  In addition to being a wife, mother and grandmother, Ruth is actively involved with a prominent San Diego writers group. No one can say Ruth Jean Dale hasn't made the most of her second chance!

  Books by Ruth Jean Dale

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  244—EXTRA! EXTRA!

  286—TOGETHER AGAIN

  For my daughters, who know all about second chances.

  They not only bravely endured their mother's brain surgery but their father's, as well.

  Into each life some rain must fall, but this is ridiculous!

  Published September 1990

  ISBN 0-373-25415-6

  Copyright © 1990 by Betty Duran.

  1

  Juliana Robinson braced herself between the two angry men, planting a hand on the chest of each as they strained toward each other. One chest was bare and muscular. An expensively tailored suit coat and pristine white shirt covered the other.

  Benjamin Ware exerted just a degree more pressure against her hand, and she felt his muscles flex beneath the warm brown skin. She turned her head sharply, intending to give him a pointed reprimand, but the challenge in his heavy-lidded blue eyes stopped her cold.

  "Not only no, but hell no," he said in that dangerous, gravelly voice. Juliana might not even have been present, so little attention did he pay her as his gaze locked with that of Cary Goddard. "You'll get this land when hell freezes over."

  The light of combat, raw edged and eager, gleamed in Ben's eyes. He wanted a fight. His whisker-stubbled jaw jutted out with an aggression that chilled her.

  The voice of Cary Goddard, the man on the other end of Juliana's outstretched arms, purred past her ear. "Then prepare for a long, cold winter."

  Standing in the middle of the twenty-two-point-nine acres of prime Southern California real estate in question, Juliana swung her outraged glance from one man to the other. "What's the matter with you two?" she demanded. "It's only business!"

  Except it wasn't—this was something entirely different.

  She'd known Ben would be difficult. Hell, Ben had always been difficult. He'd also given her fair warning in a letter stating succinctly that the Ware avocado ranch was no longer for sale. She'd figured this was an honest reaction on his part—either honest grief over his mother's death or honest greed. Either way, she could deal with it.

  Or so she had told herself when she hounded him into this meeting. Looking at him now, she wasn't so sure.

  His thick blond hair, wild and unruly as his attitude, curled around his ears and tumbled over his forehead. The silky texture did nothing whatsoever to soften his rugged features. His finely drawn lips were curled back over his teeth almost in a snarl. He looked past Juliana with an arrogance that set her teeth on edge.

  "Read my lips." Ben's harsh voice broke the tight silence. "No. N-O. End of negotiations."

  Cary Goddard uttered an oath. She glanced at him with alarm. Cary wasn't used to being thwarted, especially not when he'd come so close to success.

  Fifty-five to Ben's forty, Cary stood six feet tall and still looked small next to Ben. Normally, his silver hair and full mustache gave him a jaunty air. At the moment he looked petulant as a spoiled child.

  Juliana's arms quivered with the strain of holding off these two would-be raging bulls. Then it dawned on her that she was being used.

  If they really wanted to get at each other, no mere woman—even one who stood five-eight and went to great trouble and expense to keep everything tuned and in its proper place—was going to keep them apart. She dropped her aching arms and stepped back, raking them both with her annoyed glance.

  "Okay," she announced, planting her hands on her hips. "Settle it like men." Her lip curled contemptuously. "Beat the hell out of each other."

  For a moment more they glared at each other. Then her sarcasm seemed to sink in and the fighting tension oozed away.

  Cary crossed his arms, his expression turning cynical. "I can see we've caught you at a bad time," he said to Ben in a tone barely short of sneering. "We don't mean to intrude on your grief but we thought you'd want to honor your mother's final wishes."

  "No."

  Juliana heard the finality in Ben's voice, but she'd worked too long and hard on this deal to give up now. "Hear us out, Ben," she urged. "It's what your mother wanted."

  "My mother's dead." Ben spoke with shocking curt-ness, his low voice raw edged. "It's not what I want."

  "But—"

  Cary cut in. "Now see here, Ware, we had a deal with your mother."

  Juliana laid a restraining hand on Cary's arm. "Let me." He hesitated, and she added, "It's what you're paying me for, remember?"

  He shrugged. Relieved, she turned her attention back to Ben. "There's been a lot of time and effort and money poured into this project," she said calmly. "Your mother died two days before escrow was to close, for heaven's sake! Be reasonable—do you think it's fair to back out now, without even telling us why?"

  "Hell, yes!"

  Ben seemed to have gained control over his hostility. Now he just looked impatient, maybe even a little scornful, as if they were wasting his time.

  Juliana's lips thinned with displeasure. She'd been in real estate long enough to know how critical it was to keep cool, but Ben Ware really got her hackles up. Still, she managed to speak calmly. "What does Lillian have to say about this?"

  "My sister backs me all the way."

  Cary's hot, dark eyes narrowed. "Does she? It may not be quite that simple," he said. "Goddard Enterprises has already sunk a lot of bucks into this project. We may have recourse, legal or otherwise. If you're after more money…"

  Ben shook his head. "That's bull. You still don't understand, do you? Money's not the issue here."

  Cary's harsh grunt spoke volumes. "Money's always the issue. Let's discuss it. Reasonable men can always reach a meeting of the minds."

  Cut completely out of the conversation, an exasperated Juliana looked from one to the other. This was personal, a kind of man-thing in which she had no part. But damn i
t, she was the professional and she didn't like being ignored.

  Ben let out his breath in an explosive grunt. "I'm not interested in being reasonable." His smoky voice vibrated with passion. "I'd give this land away before I'd see it in your hands."

  Cary surged forward again, but Juliana caught his arm. "Let me talk to Ben alone, Cary," she pleaded.

  He shook her off, but Ben had already turned away to stride toward the house. For a moment, Juliana stared after him. Cary let out his breath in a disgusted snort and she looked around guiltily.

  "I've about had it with that clown," he said. "I'll own this land if I have to break him to get it."

  His vehemence alarmed her. "Maybe it's time to back off," she suggested. "I'm as disappointed as you are, but it is his property… or will be, after probate."

  "A temporary situation, I can assure you." His jaws clenched, then relaxed. He gave her a quick smile. "Hey, don't look so serious. None of this will matter in a hundred years."

  She grimaced. That could be taken any number of ways: to name but two, Ben could keep his land and it wouldn't matter in the long run, or Cary could wrest the land away by hook or crook, and history would be none the wiser.

  She knew that in Cary's book, the end justified the means. In all fairness, she had to admit that she, too, often operated on that principle. She couldn't afford to get sanctimonious at this point.

  Together they walked through the dappled shade toward Cary's sports car, their hands close but not quite touching. She barely noticed the golden February sun that warmed her—it was just a typical California winter day. She sold climate; she didn't have time to value it herself.

  "I'll take one more crack at him before I leave," she promised. "Maybe he'll talk to me if you're not there, tell me what's got him so worked up."

  Cary assessed her, his gaze roaming approvingly from the top of her luxuriant auburn hair, down past the jade-green dress that clung in all the right places, and on to the high-heeled pumps. A slight smile curved his lips. "If you can't get it out of him, nobody can."

  He caught one of her hands and lifted it to plant a light kiss on her fingertips with their short, carefully manicured nails. "But there are a few things I can do, too. I happen to know Ware's overextended his credit to keep this place going—all on his mother's reputation, of course. The guy couldn't raise a plug nickel on his own."

  She frowned. "How do you know that?"

  "You'd be surprised what I know." His voice fairly dripped malice. "Mr. Ware has issued a challenge I look forward to accepting."

  "Cary, don't do anything you'll regret."

  "I never regret anything."

  "Then don't do anything I'll regret."

  "Hey, we're on the same team. Remember that." He laughed and gave her fingers a final squeeze. "What time shall I pick you up Saturday?"

  "It starts early. Come by around six."

  "I'll be there." He caressed her wrist and arm with his tapered fingers. "This will be an evening you'll never forget. I'm just sorry I have this business trip first."

  She cocked her head knowingly. "Business before pleasure."

  He laughed. "I had two wives who never did manage to grasp that concept. I could have saved myself a lot of grief by marrying a businesswoman."

  He gave her a smile rife with promise, climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the engine. She watched him drive away with a vague feeling of unease, wondering what she'd do if he proposed to her at the Valentine Ball.

  Marry him, of course. What woman in her right mind wouldn't? Rich, powerful and powerfully attractive, one of the best catches to be found anywhere…And yet, as she walked slowly toward the house, she wondered why she hesitated at the prospect of marriage to Cary Goddard.

  She hated to admit it, but after ten years of independence, she'd begun to think wistfully of having someone with whom to share her life—"someone" being a euphemism for a man. She'd been slow to admit it even to her-self, but not because she'd had trouble getting over Pete, In all honesty, the divorce hadn't been that traumatic. Not for her, anyway. It had been considerably worse for him, and Paige had suffered, of course. There was no such thing as a civilized divorce when children were involved.

  But Paige had survived; they all had. Paige was now a student at San Diego State. Pete was struggling to make a go of a Senor Pizza franchise, and hatching all kinds of pie-in-the-sky schemes while trying to support a second wife and two sons, Paige's half brothers.

  In the meantime, Juliana had taken her father's failing real estate business and single-handedly built it into one of the most successful such enterprises in Summerhill. In her own secret heart of hearts, she frequently promised herself, "Today the city, tomorrow the county, the state, and in due time… the world!" It was her little joke. But she never laughed.

  To her, ambition was a sacred, even noble, attribute. Neither her father nor her husband had had it, and she'd learned first-hand the truth behind the old saw that "Nice guys finish last." Maybe that's what appealed to her about Cary; he'd never finished last in his life.

  She sighed and turned toward the rambling frame house, her glance skipping over the weather-beaten barn. A half dozen or so citrus trees grew here at the highest point of Buena Suerte Canyon, and terraced rows of avocado trees fell away on three sides.

  Still deep in thought, she passed through the gate in the picket fence and walked toward the front door.

  "You don't give up, do you?"

  Her head swung around and she saw Ben standing in the open doorway of the kitchen. His impassive expression gave nothing away.

  He'd put on a chambray shirt, but hadn't bothered to button it or tuck it in. Looking at him, Juliana felt an unexpected spark of interest.

  Ben had been a hell-raiser as a kid, quick to anger but quicker to smile, and popular with both sexes. Somehow she found it hard to see that devil-may-care kid in the powerfully built and grim-faced man filling the doorway.

  She looked him over with impersonal appreciation. His faded Levi's, worn low over his hips, revealed a lean, flat torso, washboarded with muscle. He stood with his powerful legs planted aggressively apart in a lord-of-the-manor manner.

  She sighed. "Can we talk this over?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to one side, studying her through slitted eyes. "Sure, now that everyone's favorite land raper is gone." He moved back and gestured for her to enter.

  "Are you one of those?" She stepped inside.

  "One of who?"

  "No-growth-ers, slow-growth-ers—whatever you want to call them." She knew what she usually called them, but she was trying to get on his good side, assuming he had one.

  He shook his shaggy head. "Naw. I just don't like Cary Goddard or Goddard Enterprises or anything or anybody connected to him."

  "Present company excluded, I hope." She favored him with a look she hoped was ingratiating.

  "The jury's still out on that. Want a cup of coffee?"

  "Kind of late in the day for coffee." She looked around the old-fashioned kitchen noting the cracked linoleum on the floor and faded chintz curtains at the windows. An aged dinette table with five chairs stood against one wall. A coffee cup and cereal bowl announced his less-than-appealing breakfast, sandwich scraps on a plate his lunch. Letters and mail littered the tabletop.

  He gestured vaguely toward the refrigerator. "I think I might have some tomato juice."

  She walked to the table and began stacking the dirty dishes. "You're not sure?"

  He opened the refrigerator and extracted a tall can without a label, holding it down so he could peer at the top with its two darkly encrusted puncture holes. He shook the can, held it up and smelled the contents. He nodded. "Yeah, it's tomato juice all right."

  She shook her head. "No thanks. I make it a rule never to drink anything I don't recognize at first glance."

  He gave her a disapproving look and replaced the can in the refrigerator. "Where's your spirit of adventure? You might l
ike it if you tried it." He picked up a cup off the counter and reached for the coffeepot on the stove.

  "We'll never know, will we? I don't take chances when I can go with a sure thing." She placed the dirty dishes in the sink and picked up a dishcloth.

  "What the hell are you doing now?" His husky voice sounded testy.

  "Wiping up the sugar somebody spilled on the table. It'll attract ants and bugs and other undesirable elements." She washed the tabletop carefully/moving the newspapers and unopened mail out of the way. Most of the envelopes looked as if they contained bills.

  "I think it already has." He gave her a sour look and sat down, plunking his cup on the table.

  She tossed the cloth into the sink. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." She sat down across from him. "Paige says I'm an obsessive-compulsive personality."

  "Paige is your kid?"

  "Yes."

  He drank. "She's probably right. It's sure as hell nothing to be proud of."

  "It's not so bad, actually. When I see something that needs to be done, I just do it." She eyed the stack of mail in front of him.

  "And you're the one who decides what needs to be done, I take it."

  "Things like that tend to be obvious." She leaned back in her chair. "Damn, you haven't changed since high school. You made me crazy then and you're still doing it." She added, "Open your mail, will you?" She couldn't stand it any longer.

  He grimaced and glanced down at the stack. "Hey, here's a letter from Lillian," he exclaimed, tearing open the envelope. Snatching out the sheets of paper, he began to read.

  Juliana watched him, thinking that she hadn't been quite accurate. He had changed since high school.

  Then he'd been a boy. Now he was a man.

  There was something solid and commanding about him that went beyond the merely physical, although that had much to recommend it. Beneath the open folds of his shirt she could see the roping and cording of muscle each time he moved. Looking at that broad expanse of chest made her own breasts tingle and her nipples tighten.