Texas! Lucky

by Sandra Brown

  "Who's the hunk?"

  "Nobody."

  "Nobody?"

  "Just a man I know."

  "Someone out of your murky past, Devon?"

  You could say it had been murky, she thought now. But the "past" had been as recent as last week. None of her coworkers would guess that.

  Finally convinced he hadn't followed her home, she walked toward the back of her house, where the master suite was located. Shedding her skirt and blouse, she gazed longingly through the patio door toward the swimming pool. A swim would cool her off. She'd felt feverish ever since she'd looked up expecting to see the gofer's affable face, and instead had met Lucky Tyler's smoldering blue stare. Several strenuous laps would relax her. She was as jittery as a kitten, wondering when he would pop up next.

  He would. She knew he would.

  She stepped into a pair of skimpy swim trunks. After taking a towel from the lucite rack in the bathroom, she slid open the patio door and stepped out into her secluded backyard, almost completely taken up by the pool itself.

  There was very little lawn to maintain, only the shrubbery that grew along the cedar privacy fence which let her indulge in semi-nude swimming. On the deck she had a gas grill and numerous potted plants. Because her days were spent mostly indoors, she enjoyed spending the evenings on her deck, tending the plants, even reading research material for her articles. Swimming laps in the pool was also an excellent form of exercise, and about the only one she liked. Dropping the towel onto a chaise, she dived into the deep end of the pool. The cooling waters closed over her. Serenely she glided along the bottom, swimming from one end to the other in one breath. Only her head cleared the surface in the shallow end, then, taking another deep breath, she executed a surface dive and went under again.

  By the time she had swum several laps, her lungs, heart, and limbs felt exercised and were aching pleasurably from the exertion. Peeling her sodden hair back with both hands, she started up the steps in the shallow end. She walked across the deck, head down. Not until she almost stepped on his boots did she notice him. Then her head snapped up.

  Lucky was sprawled in the patio chair beside the chaise. He was half reclining on his spine, his hands folded over his belt buckle, his long legs stretched far out in front of him, ankles crossed. Her towel was draped over one of his thighs. Beneath a shelf of tawny brows, his eyes were riveted on her bare breasts.

  Rousing himself, he lifted his gaze to hers. "Towel?" he asked, extending it to her.

  She snatched it from him and wound it around her bare torso. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" She distinctly remembered checking to make sure all the doors were locked and bolted.

  "I climbed over the fence. How high is that damn thing anyway? I landed hard. Think I threw my knee out. Old football injury."

  His insouciance infuriated her. He acted as though jumping her eight-foot privacy fence was something he did every day at dusk. "You followed me home," she accused him.

  "How else would I find out where you live? Since you sicced the guards on me, nobody at the newspaper was going to give me your address. You aren't listed in the telephone directory. I checked.

  "See, Devon, the first time I checked the directory, I was looking for Mary Smith. There're dozens of those. But I thought I'd give Devon Haines a try. Sure enough, you aren't there." He ran a glance down her. "Is it heated?"

  In the lavender glow of twilight, his eyes shone like twin blue lanterns. They were unsettling. In fact, she hadn't had a coherent thought since he had showed up at her office. The possible effects his reappearance could have on her life filled her with dread. What a fool she had been to lull herself into believing that she could come away unscathed from her earth-shattering experience with him.

  Realizing that he was waiting for an answer to a question she couldn't remember, she said, "Pardon?"

  "The pool. Is it heated?"

  "Why?"

  "Because you've got goose bumps as big as mosquito bites, and your lips are turning blue."

  She pulled the towel tighter around her. "The air is chilly."

  "Then we'd better go inside."

  "I'm going inside. You're leaving."

  "I want a drink, and from the looks of it, you could use one."

  He casually slid open the patio door. "After you," he said courteously, stepping aside. Because she was chilled to the bone and because she wanted to put on more clothes as quickly as possible, she swept past him and reentered her bedroom.

  "Where's the kitchen?"

  "I asked you to leave, Mr. Tyler."

  "You don't want a drink?" He dropped into the upholstered easy chair in the corner and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee. "Okay. We'll dispense with the drinks and start our discussion here and now."

  It was hard to maintain her dignity, much less her belligerent insistence that he leave, when her teeth were chattering and her hair was dripping icy rivulets of water onto her shoulders and chest. His eyes kept straying to her breasts. Devon was keenly aware that her rigid nipples were making impressions against the thick terry cloth.

  "It's a small house," she said scornfully. "I'm sure you can find the kitchen on your own."

  Smiling, he rolled out of the chair. Standing only inches from her, he cupped his hand around her shoulder and used his thumb to whisk drops of water off the slope of her breast. In a low, stirring voice he said, "I like you wet."

  To demonstrate her immunity to him, she slammed the door in his wake. He would never know that because of his touch her knees were about to liquefy. She dropped the towel, peeled off the swim trunks, and vigorously toweled herself. She dressed in a two-piece velour lounger, because it was quick, convenient, and warm. It also covered her from neck to ankle. Not wanting to take the time to dry her hair, she fashioned a turban out of a towel.

  The lamps in the living room had been turned on, and Lucky was surveying her compact-disc library. When he heard her come in, he turned his head.

  Their gazes locked. Seconds ticked off ponderously while they continued to stare at each other as if mesmerized.

  Devon could remember things about him, small things that only a lover would know, yet he was a complete stranger to her. Suddenly, and with a degree of desperation that shocked her, she realized she was greedy for information. She wanted to know every trivial detail of Lucky Tyler's life.

  All she really knew about him was that he adhered to a code of chivalry that had almost disappeared in contemporary America, that he had a keen sense of humor and a pair of startling blue eyes, and that his touch could set her on fire. She couldn't easily dismiss from her mind what had passed between them on their night together … even though she had no choice but to try and forget it. His expression told her that he was also finding it impossible to forget.

  At last he said, "All I could find was beer." He was drinking his from the bottle, but on the faux marble block she used as a coffee table, he'd set a cold beer and a glass. She acknowledged her drink with a thank you, but made no move toward it. "Don't you want it?"

  "What I want, Mr. Tyler, is to know why you think you can so grossly invade my privacy." She complimented herself on sounding imperious and cool.

  "Is that what I've done?"

  "What else would you call it? You've harassed me at my office, and trespassed on my private property."

  "So why haven't you called the police?"

  He was also a cocky bastard, she decided. He knew why she hadn't called the police. His knowing smile grated on her. Forgetting to be cool, she raised her voice. "Why did you follow me home?"

  "Because I'm not finished with you."

  "Well, that's just too damn bad, Mr. Tyler, because I was finished with you the minute—"

  "You left my bed?"

  She fell silent.

  He took advantage of her speechlessness. "Is that why you stayed with me that night? Were you that hard up for a man? Would any man have done?"

  "No, no, and no!"

  He responded
as though she had said yes. "Then, in the morning, once I'd done stud duty for you, you figured it was all right to sneak out."

  "You're wrong," she said, stubbornly shaking her head. "I won't even honor that with a denial."

  He set his beer on a shelf in the bookcase and, in two strides, came even with her. His hands bracketed her shoulders, lifting her slightly up and forward. "What else am I supposed to think, huh? Why'd you hightail it out of that motel room?"

  "Because I was disgusted."

  He was taken aback by her answer. No woman had ever said that to him. "Disgusted? With me?"

  "With myself," she lashed out. "With the situation. I didn't want to hash through it again. If you make a habit of sleeping with women you don't know, I'm sure you can understand morning-after awkwardness."

  Gnawing on his inner cheek, he assimilated what she'd said and apparently agreed with her. Then, taking another tack, he asked, "Why did you pull that disappearing act this afternoon?"

  "Because we had nothing more to talk about."

  "Wrong."

  "Right."

  "Are you going to ask me to spend the night tonight?"

  "No!" she said, aghast.

  "Then we've got something more to talk about."

  "I think that's what's really bothering you," she said heatedly. "You're certain that every woman you meet is panting to go to bed with you. Well, take a good look at the exception, Mr. Tyler. You're only hounding me because I walked out on you and not the other way around. Your ego has been stung."

  "Maybe," he admitted grudgingly. "Partially."

  "Nurse it someplace else, with someone else. I don't want to see you again. Haven't I made that plain enough?"

  "Oh yeah. You've made it plain. But you haven't convinced me, Devon. You haven't even convinced yourself."

  He drew her forward with such force that the towel slipped from her head and her hair tumbled out of it. His mouth was damp and demanding as it settled against her lips.

  Far from resenting his aggressiveness, she responded to it, reveling in his potency and his blatant hunger for her. Instead of pulling away, as her mind dictated that she should, she treated herself to the heat and urgency of his kisses.

  His hands slid beneath her top to splay open across her back and hold her closer to him. She loved his touch on her skin and longed to take the same kind of liberties with him. He was tough, all sinew and muscle. Her curves molded pliantly to his manliness. She loved the rasp of his stubble against her face, the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin. She was starved for his masculinity.

  When he raised the hem of her top, she felt the cold, exciting bite of his metal belt buckle against her bare midriff. Then his hands moved over her breasts—reshaping, stroking, teasing, then gratifying by drawing his thumbs across her nipples.

  "Devon," he murmured roughly when he felt their beading reaction through the silk cup of her bra. "Why are you making this so hard?"

  She yanked herself away from him, backing up as though he represented something terrifying, which he did. Oddly enough, he was smiling.

  "I didn't mean that in a crude or lewd way. I meant 'hard' as in difficult."

  "I know what you meant," she said breathlessly, unable to find her full voice. "It's not only difficult, it's impossible. I told you that earlier. Now, please go, and don't bother me again."

  "You're bothered all right."

  She followed his gaze down to her swollen breasts, defined so well against the soft cloth of her pullover. She would be lying to herself as well as to him to deny that she desired him. On a near-sob she said, "Please go."

  "Devon, forget how and where we met. Think only about how it was when we woke up in bed together and turned to each other."

  She closed her hands over her ears. "I can't."

  "Why?" He forced her hands back down to her sides. "Why, when it was so damn good, won't you let yourself remember?"

  "I don't owe you any explanations."

  "The hell you don't," he said, his voice low and fierce. "The kiss you just gave me makes a lie out of everything you're saying. You're hungry for me. As hungry as I am for you. I believe that entitles me to an explanation."

  His incisive arguments, combined with his sex appeal, were weakening her resolve. Pulling her hands free of his and lashing out defensively, she cried, "I can't see you anymore. Ever. Now, please go away."

  Lucky switched tactics. Hooking his thumbs in his belt loops, he assumed a slouching stance, his body thrown slightly off-center. Arrogantly he tilted his head to one side. "Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say that the kisses we've shared didn't leave us both damned near senseless. Let's say that your blood's not running hot and thick right now. Let's forget all that and focus our attention on my problem—besides the one I have with you, that is. Let's discuss how badly I need you for my alibi."

  She was shaking her head long before he finished, first in denial of her physical reactions to him, then to the idea of her testifying to the authorities on his behalf.

  "No one can know that I spent the night with you," she said adamantly. "No one. Is that understood? I certainly can't make it a matter of public record." Her previous chill, temporarily dispelled by their embrace, returned.

  She ran her hands up and down her arms as though to restore circulation.

  "You can't just shrug off this arson rap as a frivolous misfortune of mine."

  "I'm not. I'm terribly sorry that you're in trouble."

  "More than just trouble, Devon. These federal guys are damned serious."

  "What kind of case have they got against you?"

  "Flimsy and circumstantial," he admitted. "I would never get convicted, but I don't expect we could raise bail. I do not cotton to the idea of going to jail for any length of time, especially for something I didn't do. I don't even like the idea of being charged with a felony. My family, our business, would be irreparably damaged by something like that." Gently he took her by the shoulders again. "Devon, be reasonable about this. You've got to help me."

  "No I don't. You can't force me."

  "I shouldn't have to. Why won't you just come forward like any decent person would?"

  "I can't!"

  "Tell me why."

  "I can't!"

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm married!"

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  "She's married."

  Lucky's two glum words echoed as dismally as a death knell. Seated at the bar in Tanya and Chase's small apartment kitchen, he stared forlornly into the cup of coffee his sister-in-law had brewed for him.

  He had arrived at their apartment complex before dawn. Ignoring the early hour, he'd knocked on their door and got them out of bed, his unkempt hair and stubble of beard chasing away their annoyance at having been awakened so early.

  Besides looking as though he needed a shave, a hot meal, and twelve hours of sleep, Lucky had hair windblown from driving all the way from Dallas, a distance of over a hundred miles, with the top of his convertible down, going at speeds they dared not guess and would rather not know. Strands of dark blond hair were radiating from his head like straw.

  His family had been worried about him since yesterday morning. The last one to see him had been Sage. According to her, he had left the house half-dressed, at a dead run, and without a word of explanation.

  Now several moments transpired before Chase repeated his brother's bleak report. "Married?"

  "Married. You know, matrimony, holy wedlock."

  Tanya, having poured her husband and herself another cup of coffee, sat down on one of the barstools. "How do you know, Lucky?"

  "She told me." After a lengthy, deep, wet kiss, he thought bitterly.

  "You finally tracked her down?"

  "Yesterday."

  "Where?"

  "Dallas."

  "What's her name?"

  "Devon Haines."

  "That sounds familiar."

  "You've probably read her newspaper column."r />
  "Sure!" Chase exclaimed, thumping the bar with his fist. "Devon Haines."

  "I accidentally stumbled over her byline and picture in yesterday morning's paper." Lucky recounted the rest of the story to them, leaving out the personal aspects of it and glossing over the tempestuous hours he'd spent in a bowling alley and batting barn—so he'd have something to hit legitimately—after his meeting with her and until he decided to drive home.

  "The lady did not want to be found," he said. "When I did find her, she refused to cooperate, said she wouldn't, couldn't, be my alibi. Now I know why." The coffee was scalding hot, but he tossed it back as though the mug were a shot glass full of whiskey. Tanya silently rose to get him a refill.

  "Did you meet her husband?" Chase wanted to know.

  "No."

  "Was he there?"

  "No."

  "Where was he?"

  "I don't know."

  "What's his name?"

  "I don't know."

  "If she's married, what was she doing sleeping with you?"

  "I don't know that either. Who the hell can figure out what goes on inside a woman's head?" Angrily Lucky flung himself off the barstool and began to prowl the length of the galley kitchen. "This is one situation I've never run across. I don't have any experience, and I'm stumped." He stopped pacing to address his audience. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not claiming to be an angel. I confess to having done some pretty wild things with women."

  "I don't think anyone could dispute that."

  "We've done some pretty wild things together."

  Chase cast an uncomfortable glance toward his wife. His love for Tanya McDaniel had tamed the former rodeo star considerably.