dropping it into the wastebasket. He was only semi-soft. His body was still taut, still hungry.
Rhoda Gilbreath sat up and pulled the sheet over her breasts. The ludicrously demure gesture was wasted on him. He was standing at the window with his back to her, naked, calmly smoking his cigarette and staring sightlessly at the gaudy, animated, pink neon sign in the parking lot of the Pelican Motel.
"Don't pout." Her purr was conciliatory. "I like it hard and fast sometimes. I wasn't complaining."
His head, with its shaggy, gold-streaked hair, came around. Scornfully he gazed at her over his shoulder. "You've got no reason to complain, Rhoda. You got off three times before I lost count."
In the span of a second her expression went from seductive to furious. "First you sulk, then you get nasty. One would think you'd be grateful."
"What do you want, a tip?"
She glowered at him. "It wasn't easy for me to drop everything and come running tonight. I only accommodated you because when you called it sounded like an emergency."
"It was," he muttered, remembering the state he'd been in when he left Schyler at Belle Terre. Leaving the window and placing the cigarette between his broody lips, he reached for his jeans and stepped into them.
The woman reclining against the headboard sat up at attention. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"You're leaving?"
"That's right."
"Now?"
"Right again."
"But you can't. We just got here."
"Don't sound so put out, Rhoda. You rushed over because you were hot to get laid. You always are."
"Aren't you?"
"Yes. But I admit it. You make it sound like meeting me here was an act of charity. We both know better."
She took another tack, reverting to seduction. Raising one knee, wagging it back and forth slowly and enticingly, she said, "I told Dale that I was going to sit with a sick friend and probably wouldn't be home until morning." She let the sheet fall. "We've got all night."
Indifferent to her allure, Cash pulled on a pair of muddy cowboy boots and shoved his arms into a shirt, which he left unbuttoned. "You've got all night. I'm leaving."
"Damn you."
"The room's paid for. There's cable TV. You've got an ice machine right outside. What more could you want? Enjoy." He tossed the room key onto the bed beside her.
"You bastard."
"That's exactly right. Ask anybody." He gave her a cynical smile and a mocking salute before slamming the motel door behind him.
Chapter Seven
They laughed at her.
Breakfast was being served on the screened portion of the veranda at the back of the house. When Schyler made her outlandish statement, Tricia dropped the spoon she was using to dig out a Texas Ruby Red grapefruit. Ken clumsily replaced his coffee cup in the saucer. For a moment they stared at her with amazement, then simultaneously began laughing.
Only minutes earlier Schyler had put in an appearance, already dressed for the day. By eight-thirty the humidity had topped ninety percent. It had made her hair wave and curl and cling to the back of her neck. Just in the few days since her arrival, the southern sun had streaked the strands nearest her face to a pale and appealing blond. The bandage on her arm had drawn attention immediately.
"What in the world happened to your arm, Schyler?" Tricia had asked.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the trolley and declining Mrs. Graves's stilted offer of a hot breakfast, she said, "I was attacked in the woods last night by a pit bull terrier."
Tricia's eyes widened. "You're kidding!"
"I wish I were."
"They're vicious dogs."
"I don't know about the whole breed, but this one was. It scared the living daylights out of me. It could have killed me."
"The dog was in our woods?" Ken asked. "On Belle Terre?"
"Yes. Only a few hundred yards from the house." Schyler recounted the incident for them, omitting any reference to Cash Boudreaux.
"You should have those bites looked at," Ken said worriedly.
"They've been looked at.
Rhoda Gilbreath sat up and pulled the sheet over her breasts. The ludicrously demure gesture was wasted on him. He was standing at the window with his back to her, naked, calmly smoking his cigarette and staring sightlessly at the gaudy, animated, pink neon sign in the parking lot of the Pelican Motel.
"Don't pout." Her purr was conciliatory. "I like it hard and fast sometimes. I wasn't complaining."
His head, with its shaggy, gold-streaked hair, came around. Scornfully he gazed at her over his shoulder. "You've got no reason to complain, Rhoda. You got off three times before I lost count."
In the span of a second her expression went from seductive to furious. "First you sulk, then you get nasty. One would think you'd be grateful."
"What do you want, a tip?"
She glowered at him. "It wasn't easy for me to drop everything and come running tonight. I only accommodated you because when you called it sounded like an emergency."
"It was," he muttered, remembering the state he'd been in when he left Schyler at Belle Terre. Leaving the window and placing the cigarette between his broody lips, he reached for his jeans and stepped into them.
The woman reclining against the headboard sat up at attention. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?"
"You're leaving?"
"That's right."
"Now?"
"Right again."
"But you can't. We just got here."
"Don't sound so put out, Rhoda. You rushed over because you were hot to get laid. You always are."
"Aren't you?"
"Yes. But I admit it. You make it sound like meeting me here was an act of charity. We both know better."
She took another tack, reverting to seduction. Raising one knee, wagging it back and forth slowly and enticingly, she said, "I told Dale that I was going to sit with a sick friend and probably wouldn't be home until morning." She let the sheet fall. "We've got all night."
Indifferent to her allure, Cash pulled on a pair of muddy cowboy boots and shoved his arms into a shirt, which he left unbuttoned. "You've got all night. I'm leaving."
"Damn you."
"The room's paid for. There's cable TV. You've got an ice machine right outside. What more could you want? Enjoy." He tossed the room key onto the bed beside her.
"You bastard."
"That's exactly right. Ask anybody." He gave her a cynical smile and a mocking salute before slamming the motel door behind him.
Chapter Seven
They laughed at her.
Breakfast was being served on the screened portion of the veranda at the back of the house. When Schyler made her outlandish statement, Tricia dropped the spoon she was using to dig out a Texas Ruby Red grapefruit. Ken clumsily replaced his coffee cup in the saucer. For a moment they stared at her with amazement, then simultaneously began laughing.
Only minutes earlier Schyler had put in an appearance, already dressed for the day. By eight-thirty the humidity had topped ninety percent. It had made her hair wave and curl and cling to the back of her neck. Just in the few days since her arrival, the southern sun had streaked the strands nearest her face to a pale and appealing blond. The bandage on her arm had drawn attention immediately.
"What in the world happened to your arm, Schyler?" Tricia had asked.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the trolley and declining Mrs. Graves's stilted offer of a hot breakfast, she said, "I was attacked in the woods last night by a pit bull terrier."
Tricia's eyes widened. "You're kidding!"
"I wish I were."
"They're vicious dogs."
"I don't know about the whole breed, but this one was. It scared the living daylights out of me. It could have killed me."
"The dog was in our woods?" Ken asked. "On Belle Terre?"
"Yes. Only a few hundred yards from the house." Schyler recounted the incident for them, omitting any reference to Cash Boudreaux.
"You should have those bites looked at," Ken said worriedly.
"They've been looked at.
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