Do Me Right (7 page)

The horrified expression on the woman's face should have made her laugh, but she couldn't muster anything stronger than disgust. She shoved open the door to the shop and slammed it behind her.

"I ought to be able to swear out a warrant against those people for something," she grumbled as she stashed her purse behind the counter. "Harassment or stupidity or something."

Scott and Cherry scarcely noticed her. They were standing in the middle of the shop, a large music case between them. "It's about time you got here," Scott said. "I've been trying to tell Cherry she can't bring this thing in here."

"It's not a thing, it's a cello!" Cherry whirled to face Theresa. "I thought I could practice during slow spells. The customers might even like the music."

Scott's look was scornful. "This is a tattoo shop. Our customers like rock and roll. Not cello music."

"How do you know? Have you asked them?"

"Both of you, quiet!" Theresa squeezed her head between her hands, trying to drive out the headache already throbbing there. "Cherry, put the cello in the back. We'll decide later if you can play it or not."

Cherry stuck her tongue out at Scott, then lugged the case toward the back. Theresa turned to him. "I need you to close tonight," she said.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. "I was sort of planning on going out."

"You can go out after you close up here. There'll still be plenty of women in the bars."

"C'mon! You make it sound like I go around picking up anything in a skirt."

She arched one eyebrow. "You're the one who's always bragging about your conquests."

He glanced toward the back room. "Not so loud, okay?"

"You worried she'll think you're a tomcat?" Stud Boy's discomfort was too delicious not to savor, but she did lower her voice. "I thought you enjoyed that reputation." Especially since she suspected he exaggerated his conquests.

"You kidding?" He made a show of polishing his nails on his shirt front. "I know dudes who would kill for a rep like mine. But I don't want to scare her off by revealing too much too soon, you know?"

"So see, it will be good for you to stay in and work one night."

"Why can't you close tonight?" He followed her to the front counter and watched her log on to the computer.

"I'm going out." Actually her plans called for staying in with a certain cowboy, but Scott didn't need to know that.

"You mean you have a date?" He shook his head. "You never date."

She glared at him. "Just because I don't feel the need to announce the details of my social life to everyone who walks through the door doesn't mean I don't have one."

"You can't keep a secret like that. Not in a place like this." He shrugged. "Besides, everybody knows you don't date."

She gave him her best go-to-hell glare, a look that had reduced lesser men to stammering idiots. "Do I look like a nun to you?"

He held up both hands and took a step back. "I'm just saying..."

Cherry emerged from the back room and joined them. Today she was wearing ripped jeans and a tie-dyed tank top that showed off her tattoos and her not inconsiderable cleavage. Theresa almost felt sorry for Scott, who had trouble keeping his eyes off his new co-worker. "I got an appointment coming in at two and a class at four-thirty," she said.

Theresa nodded. "That should be okay. I'll be here until six or so. Scott's going to close."

"I can come back at seven and work till close." Cherry turned to Scott. "Friday night's liable to be busy, right?"

He slouched against the counter. "Nothing I can't handle."

"No, that's a good idea," Theresa said. "The two of you can watch each other's backs."

"Whatever." Scott's bored expression was entirely too studied. And the way his eyes kept darting to Cherry completely gave him away. To Theresa's surprise, Cherry was casting a few sly looks of her own.

Well, well, well. Maybe there was some spark between those two....

The bells on the door jangled and she turned, expecting to greet a customer. Instead she found one of her favorite people, Madeline Cupples, who owned the Excessories Boutique down the street.

The petite, white-haired woman with a single diamond in the side of her nose held up her arms and enveloped the much taller, younger woman in an embrace. "Theresa,
chica!
You're just who I wanted to see."

"Hello, Madeline." Theresa smiled at her friend. "How are you doing?"

"I'm hanging in there. That's the best that can be expected these days."

"What can I do for you? You ready for another piercing? Or maybe another tattoo to go with the rosebud I did for you last year?"

The older woman grinned. "Maybe later. Right now, I wanted to tell you what's going on on the street."

Theresa led her friend over to a pair of folding chairs and they sat. "Not more bad news, I hope," she said.

"No, this is good news. The local business owners are banding together to get rid of the mud Carter and his cronies are slinging at us. And we want you to join us."

Theresa made a face. The idea of endless meetings, even with people who were mostly her friends, didn't appeal to her. "Do you really think it will do any good?"

"We can't just sit here like lumps and let
them
do all the talking, can we?"

Theresa shook her head. "I wish you luck, but that's not really my kind of thing. I'm thinking if we ignore all this, it will die down after the election."

"Or maybe not, if Carter wins."

Could that happen? Would people really vote for a blowhard like Carter, who was trying to do away with what was after all an Austin institution? She shook her head. "Thanks for asking me, though."

Madeline patted Theresa's knee, then stood. "You think about it. We'd love to have you working with us anytime."

Theresa stayed seated and watched Madeline bounce out of the shop. Where did the older woman get all her energy? Between trying to sort out her employees' love lives
and
deal with protesters
and
run a business, Theresa was exhausted. She was doubly glad she'd let Kyle talk her into getting away with him tonight. Things with him were uncomplicated. So far, he'd been the rare man who didn't ask a lot of questions or expect her to be anything other than herself.

She wasn't optimistic that attitude would last, but then, it didn't have to. They were in this for the short haul, for a vacation from the other problems in their lives. She only wished she'd thought of a similar arrangement sooner.

Besides, that was probably just because it had been their first night together. All that anticipation and the excitement of being with someone new probably combined to make things a little more erotic than they would have been otherwise. Things would probably be downhill from here on out.

She turned away from the mirror and began to rummage through her jewelry box. She hoped the sex didn't get dull too soon. She still had--what?--almost five weeks to enjoy her cowboy. She wanted to make the best of them.

When the doorbell rang, she took her time answering it. It wouldn't do to let him think she was too eager. But her cool facade slipped a little when she opened the door and saw him standing there. The casual cowboy had been replaced by a dangerously sexy man in tight black jeans and polished black boots, black tab-collar shirt and a black Stetson tilted low over his eyes. She put her hand to her chest, as if to hide the furious pounding of her heart.

He let out a low whistle. "If all the angels looked like you, every man would get religion." One step across the threshold and he was pulling her close, his mouth covering hers in a warm, welcoming kiss.

Trying to stay in charge of things--though part of her voted for ripping his clothes off then and there--she pushed away and took two steps back. "You certainly are dressed up," she said.

He glanced down at his outfit. "I've been told I clean up all right. Besides, I have to keep up with you."

She turned her back to him and strolled toward the kitchen. "Can I get you a drink?"

"That's okay. We'd better leave or we'll be late."

That stopped her. She faced him once more. "Late for what?"

"We have dinner reservations."

"Dinner?" The sudden hollowness in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger. "You never said anything about dinner."

In three strides, he closed the gap between them and took her hand. "I believe I promised you something better than leftover bar pizza." He stroked his thumb across her knuckles. "And I'd never disappoint a lady."

"No one ever said I was a lady." She'd long ago stopped expecting them to. She wasn't one of those delicate ultra-feminine types men fawned over. Who wanted a fawning man, anyway?

He closed his hand around her fingers. "Come on, you'll enjoy this." He tugged her toward the door.

Still uncertain of the wisdom of going along with his plans, she snagged her purse from the table by the door and allowed him to lead her to his truck. "You didn't have to do this," she grumbled as he opened the passenger door for her. "It's not like we're really dating or anything."

"We both have to eat," he answered a moment later, as he slid into the driver's seat. He checked the mirrors, then started the engine. "Besides, you want to keep your strength up--for later."

His grin was an exaggerated leer. She couldn't help but laugh, even as desire fluttered in her middle. She fastened her seat belt and settled back in the seat. "I am a little hungry." She slicked her tongue across her lips, making sure he noticed.

He shifted in his seat and she allowed herself a smug smile. Oh, he'd noticed all right.

He drove toward Town Lake and pulled into the parking lot of the Hyatt. At first she thought they were going to the Foothills Restaurant, famous for its fajitas and its view of the lake. But he cruised past the hotel and parked in the shade of a live oak tree, next to a boat landing. "Ever been on a dinner cruise?" he asked as he set the parking brake and unfastened his seat belt.

She stared at the double-decker boat tricked out like a paddle wheeler, minus the paddle wheel.
Lone Star,
proclaimed the lettering on the prow. The American and Texas flags snapped in the evening breeze off the stern.

Kyle came around and opened her door and took her hand to help her out. This flustered her even more. She hadn't expected him to wait on her like this; she'd just been too stunned to move.

They made their way across the dock and up the gangplank to the boat, where a blue-coated waiter/sailor led them to a table on the lower deck along the railing. From here, they had a prime view of the lake and the city skyline around it. "Have you done this before?" she asked as Kyle sat across from her.

He shook his head. "No, but I've always wanted to."

She arranged her napkin in her lap and fiddled with her silverware, avoiding looking at him directly, but unable to keep from sneaking peeks out of the corner of her eye. Every time she saw him, she ended up like this--unsure of herself, not knowing what to expect next.

That first day he'd come into the shop, she'd thought she had him all figured out. He was a sexy cowboy out for a good time. Someone who, in return, would show her a good time in the process. But then he kept revealing new sides of his personality, aspects that didn't fit the image she'd put together in her mind.

Cowboys were supposed to be taciturn chauvinists or opinionated rednecks. Sexy, sure. Maybe a little wild and fun to be with. But not smooth and sophisticated, smart and considerate.

With a lurch, the boat pulled away from the dock. Soft music swelled over the throb of the engines, and a waiter brought a bottle of wine to the table and poured them each a glass. She sipped, hardly tasting the beverage.

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Come on, relax. We're supposed to be having fun here, remember?"

She nodded and smoothed her fingers along the edge of the linen-draped table. "I guess I'm just not used to this kind of treatment."

"What kind of treatment is that?"

"You know. All...this." She gestured toward the plush interior of the boat, with its candlelit tables filled with well-dressed couples.

He frowned. "The men you usually date don't take you to nice places?"

She moved her fork a half inch to the left. "The men I usually go out with are more the beer-and-burgers type." She straightened and met his gaze. "I guess I'm a beer-and-burgers type of woman, too."

He shook his head. "No. I think you might have grown used to beer and burgers, but that doesn't mean you don't think about better things sometimes." He squeezed her hand. "It doesn't mean you don't deserve to be treated like a queen."

His voice was low, soft as a caress, the words seeping into her like warm water flooding through cracks in a wall. If she listened to him long enough, she'd forget what they were really up to here.

The waiter arrived to take their order, breaking the spell, and she pulled her hand away and fussed with her napkin in her lap. By the time they'd made their choices and were alone again, she'd composed herself enough to strike a casual pose and smile seductively across the table. "I'm glad you've figured out that I deserve to be treated like royalty. I find I get along so much better with a man once he's learned that."

He laughed and raised his wineglass. "To the queen. And her loyal subject."

They touched glasses and drank and she began to feel a little better. What had she been worried about, anyway? It wasn't as if Kyle had some ulterior motive. He'd made it clear from the start what he was after; he just had a different idea of foreplay than most of the men she'd met.

"Hey, your cast is different." She nodded to the plastic contraption around his arm that had replaced the gauze-wrapped fiberglass.

"It's an air cast." He winked at her, a slow, sexy lowering of his eyelid that made her catch her breath. "It comes off when I want to take a shower--or
other
things."

She took another drink of wine, trying to calm the flutter in her stomach as she thought of those "other things."

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could direct your attention to the Congress Avenue Bridge just ahead, we've come to one of the highlights of the evening." The voice over the PA interrupted her reverie. "The largest urban colony of Mexican free-tailed bats is about to set out for its nightly foraging. As many as seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand bats live in the expansion joints of the bridge. Nightly the colony consumes ten-thousand to thirty-thousand pounds of insects."

"Only a Texan would make a tourist attraction out of a flying rodent," Kyle observed as he scooted his chair closer to Theresa.

"Hush. It's interesting." As the announcer reeled off a few more facts about the bats, small, dark figures began to flit from beneath the bridge. Within another minute, a black cloud of bats rose up, the sound of their wings merging into a throbbing like a thousand heartbeats. The cloud spread out over the water, passing over the boat and dispersing.

"I guess we have the bats to thank that we're not plagued by mosquitoes," Kyle said as the waiter delivered their first course. "One more thing to love about Austin."

"It's a great city," she said as she dipped a chilled shrimp in cocktail sauce. "But then, I've never lived in any others, so I can't compare."

"You've always lived in Austin?"

She nodded. "I was born and raised here."

"Ever think about living somewhere else?"

She shrugged. "Not really." Austin was home, or as close to it as she knew. The thought of going away had never appealed to her.

While savoring the best shrimp cocktail she'd ever had, she turned her chair more toward the railing, feasting on scenery every bit as fine as the food. The boat glided past parks and posh hotels, drawing stares and waves from tourists and locals on the hike-and-bike path around the lake. Ducks swam alongside, obviously hoping for a handout, while a trio of elegant swans remained aloof. A racing scull manned by four women slid by like a giant water bug, and two kids in a canoe pantomimed lassoing the bigger boat and going for a free ride.

When the waiter set their steaks in front of them, Theresa turned her chair to the table once more. "This looks amazing," she said, slicing into the tender meat.

"Better than leftover bar pizza?"

She laughed. "Definitely." She popped a bite of steak into her mouth and chewed, eyes closed, a moan of pure pleasure escaping her.

"It's the bourbon-mushroom sauce," he said. "I heard it's the chef's own secret recipe."

She looked at him, then burst out laughing again.

"What?" He drew back, feigning offense. "What's so funny?"

"You!" She took a drink of wine and tried to catch her breath. "Since when does a rodeo cowboy know anything about bourbon-mushroom sauce? Or wine?" She looked at her glass. "It's very good, by the way."

He sat back in his chair. "I have a confession to make."

She pulled her chair up closer to the table and sat up straighter. "This I've got to hear."

He held up his wineglass, apparently studying the scenery through the prism of crystal and red wine. "When I was in high school, I went through what I guess you'd call a preppy phase. I read up on wine and art and food and wore button-down shirts and was pretty much insufferable."

She tried to picture this paragon of western manhood as a buttoned-up snob, but the resulting image gave her the giggles. "Why would you do something like that?"

He shrugged. "Why else? I was rebelling against my parents. They were ranchers who lived for starched Wranglers, pickup trucks and chicken-fried steak. I had to do something completely different."

Her giggles subsided and she took a long drink of water. "In a kind of crazy way, that makes sense."

"All kids rebel against their parents at some point, don't they?" He leaned toward her. "I've made my confession. Now it's your turn. What did you do to rebel?" He gestured toward her with his fork. "Is the tattoo thing part of it that stuck?"

"Not exactly." She traced a drop of moisture down the side of her water glass and looked out over the water. The setting sun painted the white limestone cliffs on the opposite shore in sherbet hues. It's not that she felt the need to hide her past from anyone, it was just that the story was so damned awkward to tell without having to deal with sticky emotions like disgust and pity.

"Hey, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said. "I didn't mean to go sticking my nose in your personal business."

"No, it's okay." She spread her hands flat on the table, amazed at how calm she was. How perfectly natural it felt to tell Kyle things about herself she seldom mentioned. "My real parents were out of the picture pretty early on. My dad skipped out when I was a baby and my mom had problems with drinking and drugs, so my brother Zach and I ended up in foster homes."

"So how was that?" No pity in his voice or on his face. Not yet, anyway.

"Most of the time, it pretty much sucked. I ran away when I was fourteen. And when I was fifteen. And sixteen. The last time I stayed out on the street maybe six months." She frowned. Those dark times were a blur now: sleeping in abandoned buildings, begging for change, scoring drugs. Just as well she didn't remember more, or she might be more ashamed. As it was, it was just another part of who she was. Nothing to be proud of but nothing she could change, either. "I was hanging out with the wrong crowd, doing drugs and other stuff that wasn't good."