"Son of a bitch. That's weird."
"I'll tell you what's weirder. I'm beginning to believe they're going to find the whole thing. That they're the only ones who will."
"Never believed it existed."
"Ask Laura to show you her coin," Byron suggested. "You might change your mind."
"I might do that," Michael murmured, then walked back into the comforting arena of cigar smoke and beer.
When he dragged himself up the stairs at three A.M., he still had his shirt, his horses, and his ego. He would have counted himself lucky for that. The fact that he was also eight hundred dollars richer was just icing.
He thought he might put it toward buying a pretty yearling Quarter Horse he'd had his eye on.
He stepped through his front door and stumbled over the warm bundle stretched out there.
"Jesus Christ!" As he hit the floor, the dog yelped, shuddered, then licked humbly at Michael's face. "Bongo, what the hell are you—Jesus, get your tongue out of my mouth!" Michael swiped a hand over his face, shifted and ended up with wriggling puppy on his lap. "Yeah, yeah, you're sorry. How the hell'd you get in here? Learn how to pick locks now?"
"He came with me." Laura stepped out of
the bedroom.
"He loves me. He didn't want to sleep in my bed all alone. Me either."
Maybe it was the beer, or his abrupt meeting with the floor, but his voice seemed to have been lost somewhere along the way.
She was standing in the lamplight, smiling. And wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Her hair was tousled, her skin flushed. And when he managed to clear his vision, he noted that her eyes were bright, if a bit unfocused.
She was in simple words, beautiful, sexy, and drunk.
"Did you come for the rent?"
Her laugh was low and frothy. "It's after business hours. I came for you. Thought you'd never get here. How was the poker game?''
"Profitable. How was the movie marathon?"
"Illuminating. Did you ever watch, really watch, the way people kiss in black and white? It's…" She sighed, ran a hand down her breasts until he had to roll his tongue back into his mouth. "Wonderful," she decided. "Just wonderful. Come and kiss me, Michael. In black and white."
"Sugar…" He had very few rules and was struggling to remember this one as he set the dog aside and rose. "You're plowed."
"I am, indeed." She shook back her hair, leaned against the doorway for balance. "D'you know, Michael, I have never been drunk in my life. A little tipsy, I will admit to having been, on occasion a little tipsy. But drunk, never. Not done, not acceptable for a woman of my standing in the community."
"Your secret's safe with me. Bongo and I will walk you home."
"I'm not going home." She straightened, steadied herself, enjoying the liberating way the room tilted as she stepped toward him. "Until I've had you. Then you can tell me if I kiss as good as Kate and Margo."
"Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Word travels fast around here."
"You can even rip my clothes off again." She linked her arms around his neck. "It's your shirt anyway. I like wearing your clothes. It's almost like having your hands on me. Are you going to put your hands on me, Michael?"
"I'm debating."
"I'll tell you a secret." She pressed against him, put her mouth on his ear. "Wanna know my secret?"
She was going to be sorry come sunrise, but—he skimmed his hands under the shirt—what the hell. "Yeah, tell me a secret."
"I have dreams about you. I used to have them before, too. Long time ago, when you would come around with Josh, I had dreams about you. But I never told anybody, because—"
"It wouldn't be appropriate for a woman of your standing."