Texas! Lucky

by Sandra Brown

  "If you don't get out of here this instant," she shouted angrily, "I'll call the management! I'll call the police!"

  "Will you quiet down, please? My head's pounding. And whatever happened to all that self-defense you were threatening me with?" Removing the steak from its Styrofoam tray, he laid it against his battered eye. "If you'll bring the glasses over, I'll share my whiskey with you."

  "I don't want any of your whiskey!"

  "Fine. But could you please bring me a glass?"

  "All right, if you won't leave, I will."

  She marched toward the door and yanked it open. A jangling sound brought her head around. Her car keys were dangling from the end of Lucky's finger. "Not yet, Miss … uh, what's your name?"

  "Go to hell!" she yelled, slamming the door closed again.

  "Hmm. Named after your mother or father?"

  "Give me my keys." She thrust out her hand.

  "Not until you apologize. While I'm waiting, how about that glass?" He nodded toward the dresser where an ice bucket and two glasses were wrapped in sterile paper.

  "If you want a glass, you can get it yourself."

  "Okay." He sighed. But when he tried to sit up, the skin across his stomach stretched and the knife wound reopened. Wincing, he fell back onto the pillows. When his hand came away from reflexively touching the area, it was stained with fresh blood.

  She gave a soft cry and quickly moved to the side of the bed. "You really are hurt."

  "Did you think I was faking it?" Lucky was smiling, but his lips were pale and taut. "And I rarely go around in a shirt that's been sliced to ribbons."

  "I … I didn't think…" she foundered. "Shouldn't you go to the hospital?"

  "It'll be okay once it closes and stays closed."

  Bending over him, she raised the hem of his ripped shirt. The extent of the cut made her gasp. It wasn't deep, but it arced from beneath his left breast to the waistband of his jeans on his right side. In places his tawny body hair was clotted with dried blood. The thin red line was seeping.

  "This might get infected if it's not seen to." The resolution on her face barely had time to register with him before she said, "Better take off your shirt."

  He hesitated, because in order to remove his shirt, he'd have to set aside her keys. She sensed the reason for his hesitation and said with asperity, "I wouldn't desert a man who is broken and bleeding."

  Lucky dropped her keys on the nightstand, undid his shirt buttons, and eased up far enough to pull the fabric off his wide shoulders. She assisted him, negligently tossing the tattered garment to the floor and focusing only on his wound. "That wretched little man," she said, shuddering.

  "Jack Ed? Yeah, he's a real scumbag. I'm relieved to know your flirtation with him wasn't anything serious."

  "I wasn't flirting, and you know it," she said crossly. Leaving the bed, she went into the adjoining bathroom. A moment later she was back with a washcloth soaked in warm water. Nudging his hip with hers, she sat down on the bed beside him and applied the cloth to the cut. He sucked in a sharp breath.

  "Does it hurt?" she asked in a gentle tone.

  "Dumb question."

  "I'm sorry, but it really should be cleaned. Lord only knows where that knife has been."

  "I wouldn't even want to hazard a guess." Before, he had been too angry at her to concede what a looker she was. Now he did. She wore her dark auburn hair shoulder length and loose, and probably tried to control its natural tendency to wave. Green eyes were now surveying his wound sympathetically, but he knew firsthand those eyes could be as frigid as a brass doorknob in January.

  Her lean face had well-defined cheekbones, but a mouth with a soft, full lower lip. As a connoisseur, with vast experience of lips, he recognized them right off as extremely kissable. Her plush lower lip was a dead giveaway that this was a woman with a sensual nature.

  That was probably something else she tried to control. She certainly tried repressing it with tailored clothing that didn't quite conceal a noteworthy figure. Not voluptuous. Not model-skinny either. Somewhere in between. Slender but curved. Spectacular legs. He couldn't wait to see her out of her suit jacket, with nothing covering her breasts except the silk blouse she was wearing beneath the jacket.

  First things first, however. He was assured of success, but this woman was going to be an exciting challenge, something rare that didn't come along every day. Hell, he'd never had anybody exactly like her. Rules of the game might have to be adjusted as he went along.

  "What's your name?"

  She raised deep forest-green eyes to his. "D-D-Dovey."

  "'D-D-Dovey'?"

  "That's right," she snapped defensively. "What's wrong with it?"

  "Nothing. I just hadn't noticed you stuttering before. Or has the sight of my bare chest made you develop a speech impediment?" He suddenly wanted her face nuzzling in his chest hair. Badly.

  "Hardly, Mr.—?"

  "Lucky."

  "Mr. Lucky?"

  "No, I'm Lucky."

  "Why is that?"

  "I mean my name is Lucky. Lucky Tyler."

  "Oh. Well, I assure you the sight of your bare chest leaves me cold, Mr. Tyler." He didn't believe her, and the smile that tilted up one corner of his mouth said so.

  "Call me Lucky."

  She reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and raised it in salute. "Well, Lucky, your luck just ran out."

  "Huh?"

  "Hold your breath." Before he could draw a sufficient one, she tipped the bottle and drizzled the liquor over the cut.

  He blasted the four walls with words unfit to be spoken aloud, much less shouted. "Oh God, oh hell, oh—"

  "Your language isn't becoming to a gentleman, Mr. Tyler."

  "I'm gonna murder you. Stop pouring that stuff— Agh!"

  "You're acting like a big baby."

  "What the hell are you trying to do, scald me?"

  "Kill the germs."

  "Damn! It's killing me. Do something. Blow on it."

  "That only causes germs to spread."

  "Blow on it!"

  She bent her head over his middle and blew gently along the cut. Her breath fanned his skin and cooled the stinging whiskey in the open wound. Droplets of it had collected in the satiny stripe of hair beneath his navel. Rivulets trickled beneath the waistband of his jeans. She blotted at them with her fingertips; then, without thinking, licked the liquor off her own skin. When she realized what she'd done, she sprang upright. "Better now?" she asked huskily.

  When Lucky's blue eyes connected with hers, it was like completing an electric circuit. The atmosphere crackled. Matching her husky tone of voice, he said, "Yeah, much better. But warn me next time, okay?"

  "I think that'll be enough to prevent any infection."

  "I'd rather have risked infection. Although," he added in a low voice, "having you blow on me was worth it."

  Because that flustered her, she raised her militant shield again. "Your eye looks terrible." The steak was now lying on the pillow where it had tumbled when she surprised him with her whiskey disinfectant. She picked it up by her thumb and index finger, holding it at arm's length. "This thing stinks to high heaven." Returning it to the Styrofoam tray, she rewrapped it in its plastic covering and tossed it into the trash can. "Stay where you are. I'll go get some ice."

  Taking the plastic bucket with her, she left the room. Lucky liked the rear view of her too. Nice calves, nice bottom. If he didn't feel so bad…

  But he did. During the fight, a rush of adrenaline had prevented him from feeling every punch. Now he was beginning to bruise in places he didn't even remember getting struck. His head was throbbing. He was feeling woozy, too, probably from the combination of the aspirin and that last shot of whiskey.

  So while the thought of thawing Dovey was enthralling, he had to be content to fantasize. He certainly wasn't in any physical condition to take it further.

  She returned with a bucket of ice, and filled the center of another washcloth
with a scoop of small cubes. Knotting the corners over it, she brought it back to the bed and gently laid the makeshift ice pack on his eye.

  "Thanks," he mumbled sleepily, realizing that he might be a little drunk as well as hurt. Her hand felt so comforting and cool, the way his mother's always had whenever he was sick with fever. He captured Dovey's hand with his and pressed it against his hot cheek. She withdrew it and, in a schoolmarm's voice, said, "You can stay only until the swelling goes down."

  A crude comeback sprang into his mind, but he resisted saying it. She wouldn't appreciate the bawdy comment right now. Besides, a reference to another swollen member of his body might be the very thing that would cause her to kick him out.

  "I don't think I'll be going anywhere a-tall tonight," he said. "I feel like hell. This is all I want to do. Lie here. Real still and quiet."

  "Good idea. You can have this room. I'll get another one."

  "No!" he cried, dislodging his ice pack. "I mean, I can't take your room."

  "Don't worry about it. It's paid for. It's the least I can do after what you did for me this afternoon."

  "I'm not worried about finances," he said sharply. "But at least now you're admitting that I rescued you from Little Alvin and Jack Ed."

  "Just so you could put in your bid for me?"

  "Huh?"

  "You 'rescued' me from them, but you're no better. Your technique simply has more polish."

  "You think … think…" he stammered. "You think I want to share this room so— Come on, lady. Do I look like I'm in any condition to have sex?"

  He followed her gaze down the length of his body and realized that he did look as if he could have sex. He was shirtless, bootless, and sprawled in the center of a motel bed. His recent vivid fantasies had created a bulge behind his fly that he hoped she wouldn't notice. Immediately he fell back against the pillows with a great moan, not entirely faked, and replaced the ice pack against his eye. Waving his hand weakly, he said, "Go on. Do whatever you want. I'll be okay."

  He watched through slitted eyes as she picked up her purse and headed for the door.

  "All my injuries are probably external," he mumbled just as she placed her hand on the doorknob.

  She turned. "You think you might have internal injuries?"

  "How the hell do I know? I'm no doctor." He placed a tentative hand on his side. "I thought I felt some swelling here, but it's probably nothing. Don't let me hold you up any longer."

  Putting aside her handbag, she returned to the bed and gingerly sat down on the edge of the mattress. It was difficult for Lucky to look pained rather than give in to a complacent smile. He expected her to murmur sympathetically. Instead, she said nothing.

  When he turned his good eye to her, she was staring down at him skeptically. "If you're conning me—"

  "I told you to leave. Go on. Get another room. If I need you, I can call you through the motel operator."

  She pulled her full lower lip through her teeth several times, which caused Lucky to groan for an entirely different reason. "Where do you feel the swelling?"

  She had missed her calling. She could have been a great vaudevillian straight man. She was feeding him cues to which he had terrific punch lines. Again resisting the impulse to say aloud what he was thinking, he took her hand and guided it to his side.

  "Around here somewhere. Feel anything out of the ordinary?"

  She probed the taut skin for several moments, working her fingers up and down his side from waist to armpit. "No. I don't think so."

  "That's a relief." She withdrew her hand. "I just hope no ribs are broken," he said hastily.

  "Which side?"

  "Same one."

  Her fingers walked up his ribs cautiously, gradually feeling their way, until they reached the hair-matted, curved muscle of his chest. It might have been the feel of his chest or of his distended nipple that caused her to pull her hand back quickly.

  "You're probably just stiff and sore," she said.

  You can say that again, Dovey. "Good."

  "But maybe I'd better not leave you alone," she surprised him by saying.

  "Oh gee, that's terrific'

  "I wouldn't want your death by internal bleeding on my conscience the rest of my life."

  He frowned, saying drolly, "I wouldn't be crazy about that either." Removing the dripping ice pack from his eye, he handed it to her. "I'm drowning from this thing."

  She took it away, and a few minutes later brought him a replacement. "Maybe by the time this one soaks through, your eye won't hurt so bad."

  "Maybe. Could I please have a glass now? I think I'm entitled to a drink."

  She poured each of them one. He tossed his back. It made him cough, but the liquor spread an anesthetizing heat through his midsection that made his discomfort more bearable.

  Dovey went into the bathroom to add water to her cup, then dropped in a couple of ice cubes and sipped the drink like a lady. He remembered the glass she'd poured her beer into. Classy broad, he concluded muzzily. Not pretty in the soft, cushy, baby-doll sense, but certainly striking. She would turn heads on any sidewalk in the world.

  Through a mist of pain and booze, he watched her remove her jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. Just as he'd thought—high, round breasts.

  Oh yes, quite a looker was Dovey. But that wasn't all. She looked like a woman who knew her own mind and wasn't afraid to speak it. Levelheaded.

  So what the hell had she been doing in the place?

  He drifted off while puzzling through the question.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  The room was in total darkness when Lucky awakened. He tentatively opened one eye, after trying to open both reminded him that his right one would be black-and-blue and swollen shut for a day or two.

  There was artificial light coming from the parking lot through the crack between the drape and the wall. It was still night, but he didn't care enough about the time to try to check his wristwatch.

  His muscles were cramped from lying in one position for so long. He stretched, wincing and moaning slightly, and attempted to turn onto his side. When he did, his knee bumped into another.

  He mumbled, "Dovey?"

  "Hm?"

  He often awakened in the middle of the night with a woman in bed with him, so he responded as he usually did, by curving his arm across her and pulling her closer. Their knees automatically straightened, bringing their bodies together. Her hair brushed his cheek, and he turned his face into it, inhaling its honeysuckle scent and mindlessly kissing the strands that fell across his lips.

  That felt so good, so right, he pressed his lips against her smooth forehead, then let them trail over her brows to her eyelids. Her lashes feathered his lips. He kissed her cheekbone, her nose, then her mouth. Reflexively she drew back. "Lucky?" she whispered.

  "Yes, baby," he whispered back before seeking her mouth again.

  Her lips separated slowly. His tongue slipped between them. The inside of her mouth was delicious, but unfamiliar. He didn't remember ever kissing her. He explored deeply, leisurely, thoroughly, before biting gently on her lower lip—that he remembered craving to do—and sucking it into his mouth.

  Making a small sound, she stirred against him restlessly. Her hands landed softly on his bare chest. As his tongue glided across her lower lip, he felt her fingers combing through his chest hair and her nails gently raking his skin. It struck him as odd that all her responses were so tinged with shyness. Then her fingertips glazed his turgid nipple, and his analysis ended. He had no thoughts beyond the taste and feel of her.

  Rolling partially atop her, he lowered his hand to her breast, but became confused when he encountered clothing. It was silk, true, but what was she doing in bed with clothes on? It suddenly occurred to him that he was still wearing his jeans. No wonder he was so uncomfortable.

  Befuddled, he reached for the top button of his fly. When it and the others were undone, he eased himself free, sighing with relief. The pr
essure had been almost painful.

  Using his personal system of radar, his lips found her neck in the darkness and began dusting it with kisses as his hand moved to her breast again. The barriers of buttons and her brassiere clasp didn't deter him in the slightest, and soon his hand was filled with warm, malleable woman flesh.

  Now we're back on track, he thought. Everything was as it should be. Her breast was full and soft as his hand gently reshaped it. When he drew his thumb across the tip, it responded as he expected, becoming tight and hard. He sandwiched it between two of his fingers, enjoying the small wanting sounds that issued from her throat each time he applied the merest pressure to her nipple. Eventually he took it into his mouth. His tongue circled and stroked and teased until her hands were clutching at his shoulders and his own body was burning like a furnace.

  "Sweet, sweet," he whispered as he moved aside her garments and hungrily kissed her other breast. "So sweet."

  Hose. Pantyhose, he thought miserably when his hand slipped beneath her skirt to caress her knee. He despised the things, and wished he had five minutes alone with the sadist who had invented them.

  Moments later, however, he was delighted when his stroking hand discovered satiny smooth skin above her stockings. Apparently she was delighted, too, because at the touch of his hand against her inner bare thighs, her back arched off the bed and she released a staggering sigh of pleasure … and mounting need.

  He tracked the lacy suspenders up to the V of her thighs. Inside her panties there were myriad textures to explore and fluid heat to drown in—he wanted badly to taste her. But he didn't have the time. His body was compelling him to hurry.

  Had he ever had this woman before? No. He couldn't have. Otherwise he wouldn't be experiencing the contradictory urges to hurry and to loiter. He resented the time it took to fumble in his pocket for the foil-wrapped prophylactic and slip it on. The same desire that compelled him to position himself in the cradle of her thighs was prompting him to wait.

  But he was already there, hard and hot and pressing toward sweet deliverance. And she was moist and soft and snug and sweet.