Candace Schuler - Good Time Girl

Tom was ready to howl in frustration. “Yes, please.”

Roxy backed away a bit so he would get the full effect, placed her hands on her thighs and began gathering the fabric of her skirt into her palms. The hem rose, inch by excruciating inch, revealing the tops of her bright red boots, the lacy white stockings…

“Aw, Slim!” he groaned. “Don’t stop now.”

“Remember the last time, when you tore my panties off?”

The skirt rose a half inch higher, revealing a slice of bare skin above the tops of the stockings.

He started to sweat. “Yes. I remember.”

“Do you know why you won’t have to rip my panties off?”

“No,” he said, but he could guess.

“Because—” she lifted the skirt all the way up “—I’m not wearing any.”

Dear Reader,

Like a lot of people, I have always been fascinated by the cowboy myth, and have long wanted to write a book set in the world of the rodeo. Now, those of you who are longtime romance fans may remember that I did do a sort of rodeo book once before, but the particular cowboy in that book (Luck of the Draw, Harlequin Temptation #608) was a retired bull rider and the rodeo merely provided the background for the story. This time I wanted my characters to be fully immersed in that special world.

To that end, I did loads of research (always one of my favorite parts of writing a book!). I watched movies about the rodeo and read books about it. I subscribed to Prorodeo Sports News and visited the Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association online (www.prorodeo.com/) to learn about the rules of the game. I went to rodeos. And, best of all, I interviewed cowboys. Lots of cowboys.

And so, taking bits and pieces of what I learned and tumbling them all around in my writer’s imagination, thus was born Tom Steele, the quintessential rodeo cowboy, and the hero of this book.

It took a little longer to find my heroine. I needed just the right kind of woman to be able to stand up to that bigger-than-life cowboy myth. She had to be strong and sexy and sassy, with an attitude. It wasn’t until I met a sixty-two-year-old retired barrel racer from San Antonio, who gave me some wonderful words of advice about rodeo cowboys, that the character of Roxy finally gelled for me.

I hope you enjoy Tom and Roxy’s story. I certainly did.

Best wishes,

Candace Schuler

P.S. You can contact me through my Web site at

www.CandaceSchuler.com. And check out www.tryblaze.com!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all the good girls of the world who are yearning to take a walk on the wild side—Go for it!

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

ROXANNE ARCHER designed her strategy like a four-star general—or a stalker.

The first part of the plan involved laying the groundwork. She studied her subject carefully. She plotted her itinerary. She listed her needs and requirements, defining and refining them as necessary. She carved out the time she would need. She saved the necessary funds. She acquired the necessary skills.

That had taken nearly six months to accomplish.

The second part of the plan involved general reconnaissance and one-on-one surveillance. She trailed several possible subjects, observing them in their natural habitat for several days before narrowing the field down to one. And then she trailed that one, learning his preferences, his habits, his predilections and inclinations.

That had taken nearly two weeks.

The third part was more hands-on. Bravely, she turned herself over to the experts and let them arm her for the coming campaign. She was plucked and waxed, trimmed and highlighted, buffed and filed and polished within an inch of her life. Then she selected and donned her camouflage so she would blend in with her surroundings.

That took nearly two days.

She was now as ready as she would ever be.

It was time to go get herself a good-looking, dangerous cowboy.

“WELL, I’M HERE to tell you, sugar, rodeo cowboys are a whole hell of a lot of fun but they’re the most irresponsible sons o’ bitches in the world when it comes to women. You can’t trust ’em any farther than you can throw ’em, and you sure as hell can’t believe a word they say. Especially the good-lookin’ ones. They’re the most dangerous kind, you know, ’cause they’ve been gettin’ by on looks and charm their whole lives and they got it down to a science. I’m tellin’ you the pure honest-to-God truth here, sugar. You got to keep an extra sharp eye on the good-lookin’ ones or you’ll get your poor little heart broke for sure.”

Roxanne Archer heard those cautionary words of advice echo through her mind as she pulled into one of the few remaining parking spaces in front of Ed Earl’s Polynesian Dance Palace, and resolutely reaffirmed her decision not to let the dire warnings of one crusty old ex-barrel racer from San Antonio put a damper on her quest.

She was going to get herself a cowboy.

A good-looking one.

The most dangerous kind.

If she got her heart broken in the process, well, so be it. It was no more than she expected, in any case. And a broken heart had to be better than one that had shriveled up from disuse. Not to mention a few other body parts that were in imminent danger of dehydration from prolonged neglect.

She turned off the ignition of her rented candy-apple-red Mustang convertible and sat there for a moment, her fingers still clasping the key, her foot on the parking brake, staring blindly at the flock of pulsating pink-neon flamingos atop the roof of Ed Earl’s, and contemplated the series of events—the series of non-events, actually—that had brought her to a cowboy honky-tonk on the outskirts of Lubbock, Texas, in the middle of her summer vacation. It was simple, really.

Roxanne Archer had been a good girl—a very good girl—for the entire twenty-nine, uneventful years of her life. She wanted to take a crack at being a good-time girl before it was too late. If it wasn’t already too late. She’d been mired in good-girlness an awfully long time, and it was an awfully deep rut to climb out of—even with the help of a dangerous, good-looking cowboy.

Provided, of course, that she actually managed to get herself one.

“I just won’t go home until I get him,” she muttered stubbornly, and reached up to flip open the lighted makeup mirror in the visor so she could check her lipstick—glossy candy-apple red like the car—and make sure her hair hadn’t blown all to pieces on her drive over from the Broken Spoke Motel. It had. But as promised by the young woman who’d cut it for her in Dallas just two days ago, being blown all to pieces had only improved the style. Roxanne smiled at herself, delighted by the chunky, layered cut that tangled with her eyelashes and caressed the back of her neck with such reckless abandon.