by Sandra Brown
"What's that?" the sheriff asked, leaning toward Lucky.
"Nothing. Look, I gotta split, too." A glance through the dusty window showed her getting into a red compact car, one of those square, lookalike foreign numbers.
"Hold your horses, Lucky," Sheriff Bush said sternly. "I warned you last time that if you got into any more fights—"
"I didn't start this, Pat."
Though Pat Bush was acting in an official capacity, Lucky addressed him like the family friend he was, one who'd bounced Lucky on his knee when he was still in diapers. So while Lucky respected Pat's uniform, he wasn't intimidated by it.
"Who're you going to believe? Me or them?" he asked, gesturing down to the two injured men.
The red car was pulling onto the two-lane highway, its rear wheels sending up a cloud of dust. Losing his patience, Lucky again confronted Pat, who kept such a watchful eye on the Tylers that very few of their escapades got past him.
He had caught Chase and Lucky pilfering apples from the A&P supermarket when they were kids, and turning over portable toilets at a drilling site one Halloween night, and throwing up their first bottle of whiskey beneath the bleachers at the football stadium. While driving them home, he'd given them a sound lecture on the evils of drinking irresponsibly before turning them over to their daddy for parental "guidance." He'd been a pallbearer at Bud Tyler's funeral two years before, and had cried as hard as any bona fide member of the family.
"Am I under arrest or not?" Lucky asked him now.
"Get on outta here," the sheriff said gruffly. "I'll wait here till these skunks come around." He nudged Little Alvin and Jack Ed with the toe of his lizard boot. "Do something smart for a change, and stay outta their way for a day or two."
"Sure thing."
"And you'd better let your mama take a look at that cut."
"It's fine."
In a hurry, Lucky tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar to cover the cost of his drinks and dashed out the door. He had noted that the red car had turned west onto the highway and remembered the woman saying she was headed for the interstate, which was several miles away. He vaulted into his vintage model Mustang convertible and took out after her in hot pursuit.
Miss Prissy wasn't going to get away with brushing him off like that. He'd risked his life for her. Only good fortune and well-timed quick-stepping had prevented him from getting more than the tip of Jack Ed's knife.
His eye was swollen nearly shut now, and his skull felt as if a drilling bit were going through it. He would look like hell for days on account of this ungrateful redheaded chippy.
Redheaded? He thought back. Yeah, sorta red. Dark reddish-brown. Auburn.
How was he going to explain his battered face to his mother and Chase, who just this morning had stressed to him the importance of keeping their noses absolutely clean? Tyler Drilling Company was faced with bankruptcy unless they could persuade the bank to let them pay only the interest on their note and roll over the principal for another six months at least. Lucky shouldn't be seen around town sporting a black eye. Who wanted to extend credit to a brawler?
"Since Daddy died," Chase had said that morning, "everybody's been skeptical that you and I can run Tyler Drilling as well as he did."
"Hell, it's not our fault the price of crude fell drastically and has stayed so damned low." It was an argument that didn't need voicing. The faltering oil market and its disastrous effect on the Texas economy weren't of their making, but they were suffering the consequences just the same. The equipment Tyler Drilling leased out had been so inactive over the last several months, they had joked about storing it in mothballs. The brothers were frantically trying to come up with an idea for diversification that would generate business and income. In the meantime the bank was becoming less and less tolerant of any outstanding loans. Though most of the board members were lifelong friends, they couldn't afford to be sympathetic indefinitely when so many banks across the nation, and particularly in Texas, were failing.
"The best we can do," Chase had said, "is show them our intent to pay when we can, try to drum up business, and stay out of trouble."
"That last remark is aimed at me, I guess."
Chase had smiled good-naturedly at his younger brother. "Now that I'm settled down with a loving wife, you're the tomcat of the family. You're expected to sow a few wild oats."
"Well, those days might be coming to a close," Lucky had remarked unhappily.
His brother, shrewdly picking up on the veiled reference, asked, "How is Susan?"
Being reminded of her now made Lucky groan. Or maybe he groaned because, when he turned the Mustang onto the entrance ramp of the interstate highway and pushed it through the forward gears, the cut across his belly pulled apart again and started to ache.
"Damn that woman," he cursed as he floorboarded the convertible in order to close the distance between him and the winking taillights he was following.
He wasn't sure what he was going to do when he actually caught her. Probably nothing more than demand an apology for the snooty way she'd treated him after he'd risked life and limb to protect her from sexual harassment.
However, thinking back on the contemptuous way she'd looked him over, as if he were a piece of bubble gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe, he figured an apology wasn't going to come easily. She didn't seem the simpering type.
Women. They were his bane and his delight. Couldn't live with them. Sure as hell couldn't live without them. He had vowed to abstain numerous times after particularly harrowing love affairs, but he knew it was a vow he'd never keep.
He loved women—their clothes, their paraphernalia, their scent. He liked their giggles and their tears, and, even though it often drove him to distraction, their persistent attention to detail. He liked everything about them that made them different from himself, from their maddening habit of paying with change in favor of breaking a bill to the way their bodies were made. In Lucky's educated opinion, about the best thing God ever created was a woman's skin.
But out of bed they were a royal pain.
Take that young divorcee in Marshall, for instance. She was a complainer, and could whine until the sound of her voice was as offensive as fingernails on a chalkboard. The only time she wasn't griping about something was when they were in bed. There, she purred.
Another of his most recent liaisons had been with a gold digger. If he didn't bring her a gift each time he saw her, any kind of trinket, she swelled up with affront. Only hours of loving could coax her back into a good mood. Then there was the clerk at the drugstore. In bed she was clever and innovative. Out of it, she wasn't as smart as the nearest fence post.
Susan Young was just the opposite. She was smart. Maybe too smart. He suspected that she was withholding sexual favors not because of any moral scruples, but because she wanted him standing at the altar all dressed up in a tuxedo and watching her as she glided down the aisle of First Methodist Church in a long white gown to the tempo of the wedding march from Lohengrin.
After his discouraging meeting with Chase that morning, Lucky had kept his lunch date with Susan at the home she shared with her parents. Her father, George, was CEO of the bank that held Tyler Drilling's note. They lived in an impressive home on one-and-a-half perfectly manicured acres in the center of town. As soon as the maid had cleared away the dishes, George had returned to the bank and Mrs. Young had excused herself to go upstairs, leaving Lucky alone with Susan.
He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Smacking his lips when they pulled apart, he sighed. "Better than Clara's strawberry shortcake," he said, referring to the sumptuous dessert the housekeeper had served.
"Sometimes I think all you want from me is kisses."
His eyes moved over her, taking in her affected pout and the small, impudent breasts that jutted against her blouse. He covered one with his hand. "That's not all I want."
Susan squirmed away from him. "Lucky Tyler, will you behave? My mama's upstairs, and Clara's in the kitchen."<
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"Then let's go someplace else," he suggested on a burst of inspiration. Their house was formal and somber and unpleasantly reminded him of a funeral home, which put a damper on romance. In that environment it was little wonder Susan was holding out. "I've got to drive over toward Henderson this afternoon and see a man on business. Why don't you come along?"
She declined with an adamant shake of her head. "You drive too fast. With the top down, my hair gets blown all over the place."
"Honey, with what I have in mind, it'll get messed up anyway," he drawled, pulling her against him again. This time she participated more actively in their kiss. By the time they came up for air, Lucky was hot and ready. Then Susan had ruined his arousal by mentioning her father.
"Promise not to get mad if I tell you something." Experience had taught him that those words usually prefaced something that was going to make him mad, but he gave her his promise anyway. She didn't meet his eyes as she played with the buttons on his shirt.
"Daddy's worried about me spending so much time with you."
"Why's that? He seemed polite enough at lunch."
"He's always polite. But he's still not thrilled about our going out lately."
"Why not?"
"You do have a reputation, you know. A reputation that nice girls like me aren't even supposed to know about."
"Oh yeah?" She wasn't so nice that she balked when his hand ventured beneath her full skirt and stroked the back of her thigh.
"He asked me what your intentions were, and I had to tell him that I honestly don't know."
He was already bored with the topic of George Young and entranced by the expanse of smooth thigh he was caressing, but the word "intentions" set off alarms inside his head. He withdrew his hand and took several steps away from her. While she had his undivided attention, she drove home her point.
"Of course, Daddy never discusses his banking business with me," she said with a calculated batting of eyelashes, "but I get the distinct impression that he's afraid to extend a loan to a man who isn't settled down. You know, married and all."
Lucky hastily consulted his wristwatch.
"Gee, it's getting late. If I can't talk you into going with me, I need to get on the road. Don't want to miss that appointment." He headed for the door.
"Lucky?"
"Hmm?"
Moving to face him and looping her arms around the back of his neck, she arched the front of her body against his. She came up on tiptoe and placed her lips near his ear, whispering, "Daddy would almost have to extend your loan if you were family, wouldn't he?"
He had given her a sick smile and beat a quick retreat, after promising to join them for dinner that evening at seven-thirty. He wasn't ready to get married. Not to Susan. Not to anybody. Not by a long shot.
He liked Susan well enough. He wanted to get her into bed, but mainly because he hadn't yet managed to. She was spoiled and would be hell to live with. Besides, he strongly suspected that she wouldn't be all that great a lover. He believed that for her, sex would be a form of currency, not pleasure.
He liked his women willing, active, and enjoying the tumble as much as he did. Damned if he wanted a wife who swapped him favor for favor, or one who withheld bedroom privileges until she got her way. No, he hoped Susan Young wasn't holding her breath until he got down on bended knee and asked for her hand in marriage. She would turn blue in the face before that ever happened.
And as soon as he could get to a phone, he would need to call and cancel their dinner date. She would be upset, but he sure as hell couldn't show up at the Youngs' dinner table with his face looking the way it did.
"Women," he muttered with disgust as he took the exit ramp behind the saucy red compact.
* * *
Chapter 3
Lucky pulled into the paved parking lot about ninety seconds behind the woman. The roadside complex comprised a U-shaped, two-story motel, a restaurant boasting the best chicken-fried steak in the state—which he seriously doubted—a gas station with dozens of pumps, and a combination liquor and convenience store.
She had gone into the restaurant. Through the plate-glass window Lucky watched a waitress show her to a table. In a short while she was brought what appeared to be a club sandwich. How could she think of food? He felt like hell. Eating was out of the question. Easing himself out of his car and keeping away from the window so she wouldn't see him, he limped toward the convenience store.
"What happened to you, buddy? Get hit by a Mack truck?"
"Something like that," Lucky replied to the cheerful clerk who rang up his purchases. He bought a pint bottle of whiskey, a tin of aspirin, and a raw steak. Because the gray meat was turning green around the edges, it had been marked down. It was unfit for human consumption, but that wasn't what he had in mind anyway.
"Does the other guy look better or worse?" the curious clerk asked.
Lucky gave him a lopsided grin. "He looks okay, but he feels a hell of a lot worse." Returning to his car, he slumped in the white leather seat behind the wheel, uncapped the bottle, and washed down three aspirins with his first swig of whiskey. He had just unwrapped the smelly steak when he saw the woman emerge from the restaurant. Because he had been anticipating how good it was going to feel to place the cool meat on his throbbing eye, he was cursing beneath his breath when he reached for the car door handle, prepared to open it.
He paused, however, when she walked down the sidewalk and entered the check-in office of the motel. Within a few minutes she came out with a room key.
Lucky waited until she had backed out and driven her car around the corner before following her. He rounded the building just in time to see her entering a room on the ground floor about midway along the west wing of the motel.
Things were looking up, he thought with satisfaction as he pulled his Mustang into a parking slot. He preferred their confrontation to be private. That was why he hadn't followed her into the restaurant. Unwittingly she was playing right into his hands. Pocketing his car keys in his jeans, and taking the steak, aspirin, and whiskey with him, he sauntered toward the door she had just closed behind her and knocked.
He could envision her pausing in whatever she was doing and looking curiously at the door before moving toward it cautiously. He grinned into the peephole. "You might just as well open the door. I know you recognize me."
The door was jerked open. She looked as volatile as a rocket about to launch. "What are you doing here?"
"Well," he drawled, "I was following you, and this is where you ended up, so here I am."
"Why were you following me?"
"Because you've got something I want."
At first taken aback, she then regarded him closely. Her wariness was immensely satisfying. She wasn't as tough as she wanted everybody to think. Still, her voice was haughty enough when she asked, "And what might that be?"
"An apology. Can I come in?"
Again his answer threw her off guard, so she didn't initially react when he moved toward the door. However, when his foot stepped on the threshold, she braced a hand against his chest. "No! You cannot come in. Do you think I'm crazy?"
"Could be. Why else would you come into the place all by yourself?"
"What place?"
He glanced down at her hand splayed across his sternum.
She hastily dropped it.
"The place. The bar where I courageously defended your honor this afternoon."
"My honor didn't need defending."
"It would have if Little Alvin had got his slimy paws on you."
"That weasely little man?"
"No, that's Jack Ed. Jack Ed Patterson. Little Alvin is the one you called a gorilla. See, they call him Little Alvin because—"
"This is all very interesting, but I just want to forget it. Rest assured that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of them getting their 'slimy paws' on me. I had the situation under control."
"Is that right?" he asked, giving her a smile that said he didn't beli
eve her for a minute, but he admired her spunk.
"That's right. Now, if you'll please excuse—"
"Uh-uh." He flattened his hand against the door she was about to shut in his face. "I don't have my apology yet."
"All right," she said irritably, shoving back a handful of auburn hair he wouldn't mind having a handful of himself. "I apologize for … for…"
"For not thanking me properly for rescuing you."
Gritting her teeth, she emphasized each word. "For not thanking you properly for rescuing me."
Propping his shoulder against the doorjamb, he squinted at her. "Wonder how come I don't think you really mean that?"
"Oh, I do. I truly do. From the bottom of my little ol' heart." Resting her right hand on the left side of her chest, she fluttered her eyelashes as she made a pledge. "If I ever get hit on in a bar again, you'll be the first one I call to defend me. I'll even recommend you to my fragile, feminine friends. How's that for gratitude?"
Ignoring her sarcasm, he raised his hand and touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of his index finger. "Your lip is bleeding again."
Turning her back on him, she rushed into the room and bent over the dresser top to check her reflection in the mirror. "It is not!" When she turned back around, Lucky was standing inside the closed door with his back to it, grinning like a hungry alley cat who'd just spotted a trapped mouse.
She drew herself up straight and said in an overly calm voice, "You don't want to do this. I'm warning you that I'm capable of defending myself. I'll raise such a hue and cry, I'll bring this building down. I know how to use physical force. I'll—"
Lucky started laughing. "What did you think I had in mind, ravishing you? All I want to do is hear a sincere apology from you, then I'll be on my way. In the meantime I'm going to borrow your bed for a minute."
Setting the whiskey, aspirin, and packaged steak on the nightstand, he hopped on one foot while pulling off his boot, then got rid of the other one the same way. He stretched out on the bed and piled both pillows against the headboard, sighing with relief as his head sank into them.