TALL, DARK AND TEXAN

by Jane Sullivan

  There wasn't one.

  No. That was impossible. She circled the loft a time or two more, and suddenly it dawned on her that the bathroom could be only one place.

  Inside his bedroom.

  She walked to the door and tentatively pushed it open. Scanning the room, she saw a row of shelves along one wall overflowing with books and magazines. A lone dresser was positioned along another wall, and on top of it sat a portable television. Against the far wall was a bed, where he lay sleeping, stretched out on his stomach with the covers kicked off.

  And he was stark naked.

  She froze, stunned at the sight. Back away. Leave the room. Pretend you saw nothing.

  But she couldn't. Not when her eyes were glued to the most beautiful male body she'd ever seen, and she'd seen her share. He had a physique as if he'd dropped right down from Mount Olympus, with gorgeous broad shoulders, just enough muscle to be hugely impressive without looking as if he'd popped a case of steroids and an absolutely world-class ass.

  She'd known he was big. Rock solid. But she hadn't known just how flawless a body he had. It was like staring at a national monument or a hundred-story skyscraper or something else so awe inspiring that the only reason she'd pry her eyes away would be to haul out a camera. And stretched out beside him was the feline from hell, his one-eared head resting on the edge of the pillow, sound asleep. It was such a bizarre sight—the massive man and the gargantuan cat sleeping peacefully side by side.

  But no matter how stunning the sight, she still had to pee. Badly. On the other side of the room, she saw the door leading to the bathroom. She tiptoed in that direction, but halfway there she heard the rustle of sheets and blankets.

  The man had begun to move.

  She stopped and flattened herself against the wall. He started to roll over, dislodging the cat. She thought about running from the room, but then he caught sight of her and she knew it was too late. As he turned and sat up on the edge of the bed, for a split second she was sure she was going to get a glimpse of the part of his body that would undoubtedly make the rest of him pale in comparison. But at the last moment he pulled the sheet along with him and rose from the bed, dragging it along as he walked toward her.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her speech had deserted her completely. And no wonder. Every drop of her blood had rushed to the most demanding part of her body right now—her eyes. And at the moment they were roving over the exposed parts of his body as if they had a mind of their own, finally landing dead center on the part below his waist that he barely had covered up.

  "Hey!" he said. "You want to look someplace else?"

  Her gaze shot up to meet his. He spit out a breath of disgust and walked toward the bathroom. "Pervert."

  Her eyebrows flew up. Pervert? He was calling her a pervert?

  "Exhibitionist," she muttered.

  He whipped around. "I live here! If you don't like it, you know where the door is!"

  "Actually," she said, her attention playing over his body again, "I like it just fine."

  She met his eyes again, and she swore that the big bad bounty hunter actually blushed. He turned and stormed toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Wow. Just … wow. She'd never in her life seen a body like that on a man, and the shock of it almost made her forget just how badly she had to pee. Almost.

  She waited with extreme impatience and not a little bit of pain, and after a few minutes, she heard a flush. Thank God. It wouldn't be long now.

  Then she heard the shower. No, no, no!

  Ten long, agonizing minutes passed as she waited for him to come out, the mountain lion on his bed giving her the evil eye the whole time. Finally the man emerged, a towel wrapped around him this time, and his dark, wet hair slicked back. But instead of moving aside to let her in, he slowly ran both hands up either side of the door frame, blocking the entrance, nonchalantly flexing those awesome biceps and chest muscles.

  "Going somewhere?" he asked.

  She stared up at him. "Uh … the bathroom?"

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  Silence.

  She shifted uncomfortably. "Do you think you could let me by?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Like … sometime soon?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "When?"

  "As soon as you get naked."

  "Get what?"

  For the span of several seconds, he just stared at her, a calculating expression on his face. Then she knew.

  This was payback.

  She rolled her eyes with disgust. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know you sleep naked?"

  "You came into my room without knocking."

  "I didn't want to wake you."

  "I like my privacy."

  "You can't be serious about this."

  "Do I look like I'm joking?"

  She eyed him carefully. "Truthfully? No. Actually, so far I haven't found you to be a particularly funny guy."

  He eyed her up and down. "Off with it, sweetheart."

  She huffed with disgust. "I am not taking off my shirt!"

  "My shirt."

  "Whatever."

  Still he refused to move. She put her hands on her hips. "Just what do you intend to do? Stand there all day?"

  "Nope. Not all day. But I can spare at least a few hours."

  "Oh, just forget it!" she said, glaring at him. "I don't need your damned bathroom!"

  "Suit yourself. But there's not another one within a mile of here. Not one you'd want to use, anyway."

  "Well, I suppose that's what bushes are for, aren't they?"

  "Good luck finding one. This isn't exactly the garden district."

  He had her there. Damn it. How dare he keep her from one of the fundamental necessities of life for such a petty revenge?

  Unfortunately, he could be as petty as he wanted to be because it would take a bulldozer to move him away from that door. How was she going to get out of this?

  Okay. Maybe it really wasn't such a big deal. After all, during that cheap vacation in Mexico two years ago, she'd sunbathed topless on the beach. And there was the tiniest little possibility that she might have gotten caught on a Girls Gone Wild video flashing her boobs during a moment of Mardi Gras insanity. If he'd happened along during one of those times, he'd have gotten an eyeful, along with every other man in the vicinity. Was this really any different than that?

  But there was a problem. One glance at her nearly nonexistent breasts, and he was going to know he'd gotten the short end of the deal. He'd showed her the body of Adonis, and all she had to offer was Olive Oyl. Still, a man was a man, and there was a strong possibility that getting naked in front of this one would be like dangling raw meat in front of a lion.

  All at once he put his palm against the wall beside her left ear and leaned in closer. She froze for several tense seconds. His sharp, challenging expression, his rugged features and his intense, dark eyes made him look almost … sexy. In spite of the situation, she felt an odd stirring deep inside her, and she couldn't stop her breath from coming faster and her body from heating up. Then he slowly reached up and touched his fingertip to the top button of her shirt, and she was absolutely certain that she was going to end up naked whether she'd agreed to get that way or not.

  "I told you I like my privacy," he said, his voice a malicious drawl. "And I meant it. So if I catch you sneaking in here again, it's all coming off. And I won't be responsible for what happens next."

  To her immense relief, he stepped back, wearing that pissed-off expression that made him look like a prison guard on death row. She brushed past him, went inside the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She turned and leaned against it, sucking in a huge breath of relief and letting it out slowly, shocked as hell to still be clothed.

  Then, out of nowhere, images sprang to mind of just what he might have meant by I won't be responsible for what happens next, and it occurred t
o her that taking that particular punishment might not be a totally negative thing.

  Stop it. He's big, he's mean and he's threatening. A man you don't want to mess with.

  She did her business, then decided that if he could avail himself of the shower, so could she. She found soap in there, some heavy-duty manly deodorant stuff with little green flecks of Irish whatever in it, but what the hell. Clean was clean. And the generic shampoo would hardly make her hair brittle if she used it just once. On the other hand, the hot water was heaven. For the first time since she'd been driving in her car last night, her body felt warm all the way to her bones.

  Of course, there was still that pocket of cold desperation clinging to the inside of her stomach.

  Right now, the man in the other room was the only ally she had within seven hundred miles, and she was pretty darned sure he didn't want her around any longer than necessary. But there had to be a way to persuade him to help her. She figured a trip to the police station to file a crime report would be a good first step. He'd at least take her there, wouldn't he?

  Past that, she had no idea what she was going to do.

  * * *

  As soon as the woman slipped past him into the bathroom, Wolfe got dressed, then went into the kitchen and found her damp clothes hanging over the chair. He threw them into the dryer on the landing of the back stairwell, then sat down on the sofa and picked up the Metro section of yesterday's Dallas Morning News. A quick scan of the headlines told him he didn't really give a damn about any of it, and he tossed the paper to the coffee table again.

  How was he supposed to concentrate on the newspaper when there was a naked woman in his bathroom?

  He folded his arms, closed his eyes and listened to the shower running, imagining what her body looked like beneath that spray of water. Damn. He would have loved to have made good on his threat, to take a look at that sweet little body he'd had his hands on last night. In the end, though, he never would have done it, no matter how bold she seemed to be about wandering into his bedroom whenever she felt like it. He hated that feeling of somebody invading his space, disturbing his peace and quiet, and by the time this day was over, he'd make sure she was gone and everything was back the way it was supposed to be.

  He heard the shower stop, and a few minutes later she emerged from his bedroom wearing his shirt again and a towel wrapped around her hair. She glanced toward the kitchen chair.

  "Where are my clothes?"

  "I put them in the dryer."

  She smiled. "Well. That was nice of you. Thank you."

  "You can't put them on wet. And you can't leave until you put them on."

  Her smile evaporated, replaced by a look of resignation. She folded her arms across her chest and walked toward him.

  "Look. I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I made you mad last night after everything you did for me, and then I came into your bedroom this morning and made you angry all over again. I'm sorry about that."

  He just stared at her.

  She eased closer. "You're supposed to say, 'Why, thank you, Wendy. I accept your apology.'" She paused. "That's my name. Wendy Jamison. And yours is…?"

  "Wolfe."

  Her eyes widened. "Is that a nickname?"

  "Last name."

  "And your first name?"

  "None of your business."

  She gave him a look of muted disgust, and he couldn't have cared less. It had been a long time since he'd felt the need to be on a first-name basis with anyone, and this woman was no exception.

  "Just as soon as your clothes are dry," he told her, "I'll take you to the police station."

  She let out a breath. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

  She reached up and unwrapped the towel. Then she bent forward at the waist, wiggled her head and stood back up again, slinging her long, dark hair over her shoulders. She tilted her head and finger-combed it, letting it fall in damp, shiny threads down her back. The neck of his shirt had fallen aside, displaying her upper chest and left shoulder. Her skin was pale, more a product of genetics than the season. It was soft, smooth and unblemished—the kind of skin that looked as if it would bruise if he so much as whispered against it.

  "Do you think the police will be able to recover my car?" she asked him.

  "Nope."

  Her face fell. "You're not much of an optimist."

  "I'm a realist. I'm betting your car has already been chopped, packed and shipped."

  She heaved a sigh. "To tell you the truth, that's what I figured. Unfortunately, everything I own was in that car and trailer. Including my five thousand dollars."

  "Five thousand dollars?"

  "Yes. In my glove compartment."

  "What in the hell were you doing keeping that kind of money in your glove compartment?"

  "I stopped by the bank as I was leaving New York. I wanted to get traveler's checks, but their computer was down, and I got tired of waiting. It was almost closing time, and I wanted to get on the road. So I told them to give me the money in cash."

  "Bad move."

  "Yeah," she said, "I know. Don't you just love hindsight?"

  She sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, one leg curled beneath her, then leaned forward and rubbed her fingers up and down her other leg from her thigh to her calf, drawing his attention toward yet another expanse of her bare skin. Her legs were long, lean and delicate, and he wondered how they were even strong enough to hold up the rest of her.

  She looked up at him. "Got any lotion?"

  He glanced away. "Fresh out."

  "Your razor was a little dull. Hard on the old legs."

  Actually her legs weren't old at all, and they looked just fine to him. More than fine. And what in the hell was she doing using his razor?

  "Bet you're wondering why I was heading to L.A.," she said.

  The thought hadn't crossed his mind, but before he could respond, she answered her own question.

  "I'm going to be an actress."

  She said it with a bright little sparkle in her eyes, and he resisted the urge to roll his. A beautiful young woman heading to Hollywood to become an actress? There had to be a bigger cliché somewhere on the planet, but he couldn't imagine what it was.

  "I know what you're thinking," she said, holding up her palm. "But trust me. I'm not some dumb little ingénue who's going to end up on a casting couch before she knows what hit her. I know what I'm doing." She turned on the sofa until she faced him, resting her elbow along the back of it. "See, I spent a few years trying to break in on Broadway, but the trouble there is that they want you to be talented. I am, of course, but there's a fine line, you know? Between pretty good and great? I don't think I'll ever cross that. I'm very self-aware. I know my limitations."

  "So you think you can make it in Hollywood instead."

  She made a scoffing noise. "Of course I can. Ever seen Baywatch?"

  Good point.

  "And I'm not going it alone. I've got an agent. He's a friend of a friend who has my head shots and résumé and thinks he can do something for me. Open a few doors. That's all I need, you know. A few doors opened so I can wedge my foot in." She smiled. "And the rest, as they say, will be history."

  He knew she was impulsive, careless and argumentative. Now he could add delusional to the list.

  "The trouble is," she said with a dejected sigh, "I kind of lost everything I own last night. That leaves me in a pretty precarious position."

  She turned those big brown eyes up to stare at him plaintively, and Wolfe felt a twinge of sympathy. He had to admit that while he'd met lots of people down on their luck, she was a little further down than most.

  No. She wasn't his problem. Pure chance was all that had led him to pick her up in the first place. He'd already done his good deed by letting her sleep on his sofa last night, and that was as far as he intended to extend his charitable contribution to the Society of Struggling Actresses.

  "Do you have a family?" he asked her.

  "Of course.
But they live in Iowa."

  "So call them."

  "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  "I have eight brothers and sisters. My parents work at the local factory and barely make ends meet. They're lucky to put food on the table. The day I left town, I knew I'd be on my own. I promised myself I'd never ask my family for anything."

  "They wouldn't help you?"

  "Yes. They would. They'd give me everything I need and go without themselves, because that's just what they do. So that's not an option."

  "Friends?"

  "No point in going to that well. It's dry. I'm the rich one of the bunch." She settled back on the sofa, a pensive expression on her face. "I can handle this situation. I just have to think, you know? Formulate a plan. I've been at rock bottom before and managed to climb out." She pondered the situation for a few moments more. "The first thing I need is a little walking-around money. A couple hundred bucks, just so I won't be destitute. Then I can start looking for a way to get to L.A." She raised her eyebrows questioningly. "Any idea where I could earn a little quick cash?"

  Wolfe started to say no. Then a thought occurred to him.

  He'd scoped out Mendoza at Sharky's last night, hitting a dead end because he couldn't get the guy alone long enough to grab him. If Wolfe walked into that bar, he was liable to be recognized, and Mendoza's buddies just might cause more trouble than Wolfe wanted to deal with. But if he could get her to lure Mendoza outside by himself, he could have him in handcuffs and into his car before Mendoza knew what hit him. After she did the job for him, he could give her some cash for her trouble, drop her off at a women's shelter, and his conscience would be clear.

  "What are you willing to do for it?" he asked her.

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "There's a job I need to have done. I could go down to Harry Hines and pick up a hooker, but you'll do."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Hey, I'm not sleeping with you, so get that out of your mind right now."