Free Good Time Girl by Candace Schuler Page B

in return until he’d dragged her into his lap and made her beg.
    Tom didn’t know what the hell to say to that, how to act. He felt gauche and grateful, and totally inadequate, like the callow inexperienced boy he hadn’t been for many years. Knowing he had to do something, say something to let her know what her actions meant to him, he reached over and captured her chin, interrupting her careful application of a fresh coat of lipstick as he turned her to face him.
    “You’re something else, Slim,” he said softly, his tone admiring and appreciative and awed. “Damn, you are just something fucking else.”
    Roxanne smiled beatifically, her confidence restored, and pursed her lips in a ripe, red air kiss.

    T HEY HAD A QUICK LUNCH of beans and burritos at Pete’s Eats and took their coffee in to-go cups to save time and get back on the road more quickly. Roxanne added a precise half teaspoon of sugar to hers, stirring it thoroughly to make sure it dissolved.
    “Why bother?” Tom said, watching her as she daintily tapped her spoon on the edge of the cup and set it, bowl down, on the corner of a paper napkin.
    “Because that’s the way I like it,” she said, and snapped the plastic lid on with a firm click. She picked her purse up, slung it over her shoulder and held her hand out, palm up. “Key, please,” she said, and wriggled her fingers imperiously.
    Tom covered his shirt pocket with the flat of his hand. “You got some objection to my driving?”
    “Nope.” She reached over and slid her fingers into his pocket, snagging the key ring with the tip of her fingernail. “It’s my turn to drive, is all.”
    “This is Texas, Slim,” he said as he followed her out to the car. “Real men don’t let women drive ’em around in Texas. It ain’t manly.”
    “In case you didn’t notice, cowboy, we crossed the border into New Mexico more than fifty miles back. I think your manhood’s safe.” She tossed her purse onto floor behind the driver’s seat and opened the door before he could come around the car to do it for her. “Why don’t you close your eyes and take a nap,” she suggested breezily as she adjusted the seat and the rearview mirrors to her shorter stature. “You’re going to need your rest for tonight’s ride.”
    He slanted her a wry, wicked look out of the corner of his eye as he folded himself into the passenger seat. “Is that a proposition? So soon?”
    “For the bronc ride, cowboy.” She reached out and tapped the brim of his hat, tipping it down over his face. “Sleep,” she ordered sternly, and then spoiled the effect by shooting him a teasing sidelong grin. “The proposition comes later.” Her grin widened. “If you’re lucky.”
    “Oh, I’ve always been lucky.” He pulled his hat completely down over his face, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back, angling his body into the corner formed by the seat and the car door. “Especially lately,” he said from beneath the hat.
    Five minutes later, he was sound asleep. He didn’t wake up until she slowed down to take the exit ramp to the rodeo arena. As he had that morning, he woke slowly, a muscle at a time. His shoulders rolled under the pale-blue fabric of his shirt. His arms unfolded. His legs shifted. He lifted the hat from his face, ran his other hand through his hair, and resettled the hat.
    “We make it on time?” he asked, yawning hugely as he extended his arms straight out in front of him, fingers laced, palms turned outward in a bone-popping stretch.
    “You tell me,” she said, as she turned the Mustang into the parking lot and began circling, looking for an empty spot among the Volvos, BMWs, and bright shiny sports utility vehicles that dominated. Unlike most rodeos, which drew fans from surrounding ranches and small towns, the Rodeo de Santa Fe was an uptown, upscale affair. The fans were mostly big-city tourists and the artsy locals who’d made Santa Fe a style as well as a place. Beat-up pickups