Tall, Dark And Texan

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 to 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 ingenue 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.”

“It never entered my mind.”

Well, that was a lie. But his random thoughts of the past half hour had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

“How much does the job pay?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know what you have to do first?”

“Does it involve getting naked?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“A hundred bucks. Of course, the wardrobe is coming out of your paycheck.”

“Wardrobe?”

“I’ll take you by the Trinity River Thrift Store. Cheap and trashy.”

“So what’s the job?”

“I’m going fishing.”

“Yeah?”

Wolfe gave her a deadpan stare. “And you’re the worm on the hook.”

4

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Wolfe had given Wendy the gist of his plan, and she felt a tremor of excitement at the very thought of it. A hooker. He wanted her to play a hooker.

Hot damn. Character roles were so much fun.

Wolfe went to the kitchen, grabbed a box from a cabinet, then brought it back and dumped its contents onto the coffee table.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Breakfast.”

She picked up one of the bars. “Protein Power?”

“Eighteen vitamins and minerals. Lots of fiber.”

“Any room for flavor in there?”

“No pain, no gain.”

She unwrapped one and bit into it. It tasted like sawdust and sand pebbles held together with Elmer’s glue. In the time it took her to gag one down, Wolfe had eaten three. She’d barely disposed of her wrapper in the trash when he grabbed her clothes from the dryer, tossed them to her and told her to get ready.

After she dressed, Wendy asked Wolfe if she could make a long-distance call, promising to pay him for it out of the hundred dollars she was going to earn. She mentally ticked off her siblings in her head, finally deciding to call her oldest sister, Terri. Terri was levelheaded and nonreactionary and would tend to ask fewer questions than anyone else in her family. Good thing, since Wendy intended to fudge a little on the truth of her situation.

When Terri came on the line, Wendy told her that since she’d gotten sidetracked in Dallas because of the storm, she’d decided to stay there with a friend for a few days. True to Terri’s nature, she didn’t question a thing. She merely made Wendy promise to call her as soon as she left for Los Angeles again.

Wendy hung up the phone, glad she’d bought some time. Now all she had to do was formulate a plan to get to the West Coast that didn’t involve taking money from her family.

Minutes later Wendy was following Wolfe down that big, creaky elevator to the first floor of the warehouse, where she was relieved to discover that the motorcycle wasn’t the only vehicle he owned. First in line was a nondescript white van. Next to it sat a gleaming late-model SUV, which she’d have salivated over if she hadn’t seen the black Porsche hiding on the other side of it.

“Oh, wow,” Wendy gushed, running her hand over its fender. “Now, this is a gorgeous car.”

“Hands off. We’re taking the Chevy.”

“Chevy?”

Wendy had been so preoccupied with the sports car that she hadn’t noticed vehicle number four. Like a mangy mutt sidled up next to a purebred, an ancient Chevy Malibu sat next to the Porsche, its crunched left rear fender crisscrossed with rust and its yellow paint faded almost to white.

Wendy blinked with confusion. “You have a Porsche, and you’re driving that?”

“We’re going into a bad area. We have to fit the profile of the neighborhood.”

“So when do you drive the other cars?”

“The van’s for surveillance, and the others depend on what I’m doing or who I’m after.”

Wendy looked longingly at the Porsche as she slid into the passenger seat of the Chevy. They left the warehouse and headed toward the police station. An hour later Wendy had filed the obligatory theft report with a very bored looking detective who had a splatter of coffee on his tie and a comb-over that hid nothing but his self-respect. It was pretty clear all around that she stood a better chance of getting hit by a meteor at midnight than recovering her car and belongings. It was a sickening feeling knowing she had literally nothing in the world but the clothes on her back, but she refused to give in to it. Instead, she let excitement take over.

After all, she was getting to play a hooker.

They left the police station. A few minutes later, Wolfe pulled into the parking lot of the Trinity River Thrift Store. He parked the Malibu in a space near the front door, giving Wendy a nice view of the establishment’s dirty sign, dirty windows and dirty neighbors, squashed as it was between an adult video store and a condom shop.

They went inside. The place smelled like a hundred-year-old attic. Shelves were filled with various garage-sale items—lamps, glassware, dishes, bookshelves. Lining the back of the store were minor to major appliances that were not-so-gently used, along with a genuine antique walnut-veneer bedroom suite complete with missing hardware and beer bottle rings. And the clothes. It looked as if every woman in every sleazy trailer park in Texas had cleaned out her closets and donated them to an even bigger charity than herself.

The clerk, a twenty-something woman dressed in a pair of jeans and a too-tight sweater, came out of the back room. She had naturally frizzy but unnaturally blond hair and had clearly been the victim of a recent cosmetics counter explosion.

The woman took one look at Wolfe and stopped short, her mascara-laden eyes slowly widening as her gaze panned upward. Then she glanced at the cash register, as if she was expecting him to haul out a gun and demand all her money. Wendy didn’t blame her. Her first look at Wolfe had been equally overwhelming.

“She needs clothes,” Wolfe told the clerk, nodding toward Wendy. “Something flashy and trashy. You got anything like that?”

The clerk swallowed hard, as if trying to dislodge a boulder from her throat. Finally she pointed to a rack a few feet behind them that was filled with sparkles and spangles. Wolfe strode over, flipped through the clothes and pulled out an animal-print micro-miniskirt. Wendy took it from him, staring at it in disbelief.

“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t wear this. Synthetic leopards are an endangered species.”

“You’re playing a streetwalker, not a high-dollar call girl.”

She held it up, twisting it one direction, then another. “I don’t think this will even cover my rear end.”

“Exactly.”

Wolfe grabbed a minuscule black top with gold sparkles and handed it to her. She stretched it a couple of times. “Well, this’ll fit my left pinkie. What else do you have?”

“Just put it on. What size shoes do you wear?”

“Five.”

He dug through a nearby bin, tossing shoes left and right before coming up with a pair of monstrous black platforms. If this job included surveillance through third-story windows, she was going to be all set.

The clerk pointed her toward a short hallway leading to a dressing room, where Wendy wiggled out of her jeans and into the skirt. Then she tossed her shirt and bra aside and pulled the stretchy top over her head and into place. She turned, looked into the mirror and froze.

Yes, the skirt was short. The shirt was tight. The shoes were stratospheric. But the clothes had caused a definite transformation toward the indecent.

This was so cool.

Dressing for a performance was always such an upper. It made her feel the character. Be the character. She blinked lazily into the mirror, then drooped her eyelids in a come-hither stare, visions of hot, mindless, well-compensated sex flowing through her mind. She ran her hands up her hips to her waist, then threw her arms back over her head and tousled her hair into a sexy mess, feeling a buzz of exhilaration at the sight of Wendy the Good Girl morphing into a hot, sexy lady of the evening. Wolfe was right. When in Rome, you had to dress like Roman hookers, or whatever that saying was.

But then she realized that part of the equation was missing, something no self-respecting prostitute would ever go without. She stuck her head out of the curtained dressing room and motioned to the clerk. The woman came down the hall.

“Got any makeup I can borrow?” Wendy asked.

“Uh…sure. Just a minute.”

Wendy wasn’t too keen on wearing another woman’s makeup, but then she wasn’t too thrilled about wearing another woman’s clothes, either. Unfortunately, she was stuck with both.

The clerk returned with a cosmetics bag the size of a kangaroo pouch. Wendy thanked her and hefted it into the dressing room. A few minutes later, she’d put the painted in painted lady. After a final look in the mirror, she swept the curtain aside. With a pout on her lips and a swivel in her hips, she headed back down the short hall.

Stopping at the doorway that led into the main part of the store, she slid her hand slowly up the door frame and cocked her hip, planting her other hand against it. Wolfe turned and caught sight of her. He looked down her body to her legs and back up again, a slow, lingering appraisal that told her she’d definitely gotten his attention. Yes. She could feel it. She was every man’s dream in one gold-spangled, animal-spotted, high-heeled package, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Then he zeroed in on her breasts. His usual frown deepened into an even more pronounced one, and he shook his head with disapproval. Her elation fizzled like a lit match hitting a puddle of water.

She dropped her hands to her sides. “What?”

Wolfe strode over to a table piled with various undergarments. He grabbed a bra and lobbed it to her. She stared down at it, unable to recall the last time she’d seen so much lace and Lycra all in one place. Anna Nicole Smith would have had trouble filling up this one.

He turned to the clerk. “Got a box of tissue?”

“Uh…no,” she said. “No tissue.”

“Toilet paper?”

She nodded obediently and scurried to the bathroom, as if Godzilla himself had threatened to eat Tokyo if she didn’t hurry. She returned a moment later with a roll of pink toilet paper and handed it to him. He tossed it to Wendy. She stared down at the half-empty roll.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

She searched his deadpan expression, looking for a little sparkle in his eyes, a little turn-up of his mouth. No such luck. The stone-faced presidents on Mount Rushmore were more likely to crack a smile.

She went back to the dressing room and put on the bra, trying to ignore the fact that it was a preworn garment, then started stuffing. Then she stuffed some more. It took most of the roll to fill up the cups, and when she finished she pulled the stretchy top down over them. She turned left and right, checking out her new profile in the mirror.

Boobs. She had boobs.

Hmm. So this was what it felt like.

She walked out of the dressing room. Wolfe stood waiting, his sharp focus zeroing in on her newly augmented bustline. She gave him a big smile and thrust her chest out for his inspection.

“So whatcha think? This is about as big as I can go before I’m a walking fire-code violation.”

He turned away. “It’ll do.”

Yeah, he was trying to play it down, but still she could see it in his eyes. Like all men, it was pretty clear that Wolfe deemed excessive cleavage to be a major improvement, like adding a family room onto a tiny house. More recreational possibilities.

As they headed for the cash register, Wendy suddenly realized that with this skimpy outfit, the moment she stepped outside she was going to have goose bumps on her goose bumps.

“Hey, wait a minute,” she said. “I’m not wearing much in the way of clothes here. It’s cold outside.”

“So buy a coat.”

“A coat?” the clerk said, suddenly coming to life. “Oh! I’ve got the perfect one to go with that outfit! Wait till you see this!”

She trotted down an aisle and returned with a waist-length garment that looked like a patchwork of purple raccoon pelts. And the raccoon had clearly had a disfiguring skin condition.

“Isn’t it just the cutest thing?” she gushed. “I was gonna grab it myself, but it’s eight bucks, and I don’t get paid till Friday. Besides, it’d look better on you with your hair color and complexion and all.”

Wendy decided to take that as a compliment. But eight bucks? Right now, that sounded like eight thousand. Not that it wasn’t a steal for such a stunning garment, but her hundred dollars was slowly dwindling away.

She turned to Wolfe. “You’re paying for the coat.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s up to you to provide me with adequate working conditions. Warmth is a basic necessity.”

“But you get to keep it when you’re through.”

“Well, I should hope so. I didn’t think you’d want to add it to your wardrobe.”

He leaned in close to her and whispered, “But I might use it as a drop cloth to change the oil in my cars.”

“Which would only make it more attractive,” she whispered back.

He glared at her a moment more, then heaved a sigh of disgust. “Fine. I’ll buy you the damned coat.”

Wendy turned to the clerk. “I’ll just wear this stuff out of here. Could I have a sack for my other clothes?”

“I’m out up here, so I’ll get some from the back.”

Wendy took the coat off the hanger, slid into it and checked out her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Ooh!” she cooed, looking back over her shoulder at Wolfe. “She’s right! It’s really me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “It’s you, all right.”

She gave him a sigh of mock disgust. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a compliment out of you, anyway?”

“This is a job, not a date.”