Texas! Lucky by Sandra Brown Page B

Chase squinted into the sunlight. "Any ideas who might've done this?"
    "My first guess would be Little Alvin and Jack Ed."
    "Revenge?" Chase chuckled. "From what I've heard, you made Little Alvin sorry he was a man."
    "He deserved it."
    "Pat thought he might be a suspect, too, but he's got a whole tribe of Cagneys swearing that Little Alvin was playing cards with his brothers all night."
    "With an ice pack on his crotch?"
    Again Chase laughed. "Remind me never to get you really mad at me." His expression turned serious again. "Which I'm likely to do by saying this."
    "What?"
    "It might be a good idea to go see Susan Young. Her daddy's already called me twice today demanding to know what's going on."
    Lucky swore. "You're right. I'd better get over there and smooth her ruffled feathers. We need to stay in good with the bank now more than ever. Besides, I truly did do Susan dirty by standing her up last night."
    "And making it public knowledge that you spent the night with another woman." Chase eyed him speculatively. "She must've been some redhead."
    Refusing to be baited, Lucky settled into the driver's seat of his convertible and turned on the motor. "In ten or twenty years we'll be laughing about this the way we did about Bledsoe's mule out of his thoroughbred mare."
    * * *
    She padded into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As expected, it was empty. One of the hazards of living alone was a bare cupboard. It was less of a hassle to do without food than to prepare meals for one.
    The thought of going grocery shopping on her return to Dallas early that morning hadn't been very appealing. Instead, she'd driven straight to her condo and, after taking a long, hot bath to relieve her soreness, had gone to bed.
    There she had stayed most of the day, telling herself she needed the rest after her ordeal. Actually she had dreaded the moment of accountability to her conscience for what she had allowed to happen the night before. There was about half a cup of skim milk in the bottom of the carton. Sniffing it first to make sure it hadn't soured, she poured it over a bowl of Rice Krispies. They were so old, they barely had any snap, crackle, or pop left in them, but they would line her empty stomach.
    She went into the living room, curled into a corner of her sofa, and reached for the TV's remote control. It was too late for the soaps and too early for the evening news. She was left with reruns of syndicated sitcoms.
    In one, the male lead had dark blond hair and a mischievous, I'm-up-to-no-good grin. She quickly switched to another channel, unwilling to have anything remind her of the stranger she had spent the night with … been intimate with … made love with. The thought of it made her hand shake so badly she had to set the bowl of soggy cereal on the coffee table or risk spilling it. She covered her face with her cupped palms.
    "Dear Lord," she moaned. What in the world had caused her to behave so irresponsibly? Sure, she could list a million excuses, starting with her emotional state yesterday and ending with the gifted way that man had kissed her when he drew her out of her dark loneliness and despair into his strong, warm arms.
    "Don't think about it," she admonished herself, picking up the transmitter again and vigorously punching through the channel selector.
    She had derided women who were susceptible to handsome faces, brawny physiques, and glib come-ons. She had thought she was smarter than that. She was far too intelligent, discerning, and discriminatory to fall for a pelt of gold-tipped chest hair and heavily lashed sky-blue eyes. His charm had melted her morals and feminist resolve. Lucky Tyler had succeeded in touching her where no other man ever had—her heart, her body.
    Mortification made her whimper. To stifle the sound, she pressed her fingertips against her lips, then explored them tentatively, feeling the whisker burns. She had discovered those sweetly chafed places on her breasts, too, during her bath.