Peggy Nicholson - Don't Mess With Texans

Tag gave her an innocent grin and resumed walking. She spun away, stood silent with shoulders hunched till he’d shoved through the door to the men’s room.

Where could I what? he wondered while he took care of business. Where could I score some dope? But a big, motherly rawboned woman in her forties, she didn’t look the sort. Or... His smile faded. Where could I reach Susannah? He slammed out the men’s room door. She’d been giving him looks ever since he’d asked when that new waitress, the little one from Texas who’d served him last week—what was her name, Suzie? —came on duty? He’d figured that was a safe way to pose the question. Because if Zack proved to be Mack, then no doubt all the men were asking for her.

But now he thought about it, his waitress had vanished down this hall only minutes after his first inquiry.

No one stood at the phone now, but the door beside it was just closing. Hell, to lose Susannah now when he was so close! He’d been too impatient. Should have simply watched and waited even if it took her a week to show. Tag opened the door and leaned out to scan a potholed patch of pavement.

A cool, sage-scented mountain wind was blowing. Rolling before it, a beer can tinkled eerily, then came up short against a rock. Somewhere out in the dark a coyote yipped. Nothing else stirred. Whoever had come this way had moved on. Either gone back to the kitchen or to the parking lot out front.

Swearing under his breath, Tag turned back to the eating area. He could leave, then lie in ambush outside the kitchen door, but if for some reason she entered by the front or side door, instead... As he reached the end of the hall he skidded to a stop.

A short, slender woman stood at a table across the room, facing away from him. Taking the order of three trucker types who grinned up at her.

Thank you, God! His heart drumming a hunter’s beat, Tag ambled over to his booth and slipped into it. He pulled the bill of his cap down to his nose and slouched till his eyes barely cleared the back of the opposite banquette. Susannah Mack, as I live and breathe!

Waiting tables. She wore a white butcher’s apron tied over a blue work shirt and jeans. She seemed thinner than he remembered—she turned to take the third man’s order and the overhead lights threw an elegant cheekbone into stark relief. But he’d have known her anywhere, even without those lizardskin boots. She’d pulled her marigold mane back into a prim braid, though wisps of it escaped already to feather her cheeks. She swiped a forearm up across her brow as if she could feel the heat of his eyes, nodded coolly at something one of the customers said, then swung back toward the kitchen.

As she moved away, the biggest trucker grabbed an apron string. The perky bow at her hips unraveled and she stopped.

You—Tag found himself halfway to his feet. He dropped abruptly back into place. He couldn’t walk over there and heave that jerk across the counter without Susannah noticing. And he’d promised himself their first encounter would be private. On his terms. So easy. Cool it.

Besides, his Texas hellion needed no man’s help. She turned with graceful deliberation, said something that didn’t carry to Tag’s ears. Her admirer sat back and clasped his hands on the table, schoolboy with knuckles rapped. Chin high, boot heels clacking, she marched off to the kitchen. When the door swung shut behind her, the trucker’s friends tipped back their heads and roared.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.