Cowboy at Midnight. Ann MajorЧитать онлайн книгу.
the headband because he’d worn it and worked in it. She caught the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne. Hardly knowing what she did, Amy flipped the battered hat over and then glanced toward him again. Without even realizing her intention, she put it on her head. When it sank to midbrow, she spun it around on her head, feeling like a kid playing dress-up.
Oh, God, what was she doing? Making a pass at a…stranger? Wearing his hat? She should have known the last place she should have come to was a cowboy bar with posters of cowgirls riding horses on the walls, not to mention Flirtitas. The posters and the sweet fruit drink mixed with vodka had made her feel crazy. All of a sudden she was remembering how it felt to be young and to ride like the wind under a blazing sun. To be happy. To trust in the beauty of life itself. To feel immortal.
Amy’s hand tightened around the stem of her cold, wet glass. She had no right to flirt with anybody ever, even if he was dark and broad-shouldered and the hunkiest guy she’d seen in years.
Flirtita or no Flirtita, hunk or no hunk, she couldn’t lose control. She was damaged and dangerous and therefore determined never to hurt anybody else, not even herself, ever again.
“Look,” she began softly, removing his hat and placing it very firmly on the table. “Rasa, I don’t come to bars. I don’t pick up strange men. Especially not cowboys. I work. That’s all I do.”
“Why not cowboys? You prejudiced or something?”
“No. It’s because—” She looked up into Rasa’s dark, imploring eyes. “Just because.”
“Okay, so you met one bad cowboy.”
“No!” You don’t understand. Again, she felt too near some dangerous edge. Defiantly Amy swirled her Flirtita glass so vigorously the liquid flashed like angry fire.
“Are you going to punish yourself forever?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Betsy has told me a little.”
“Really? Well, she doesn’t know the half of it, okay?”
“Not okay. Baby, he’s still watching you while he talks to that bartender. It’s not too late. Maybe you should go over there and—”
“No.”
“You should definitely lighten up.”
“If I do that, anything could happen.”
“So let it.”
Amy set her glass down by the beige Stetson. He’d looked so handsome in that rumpled hat. So dark and virile and absolutely adorable. Intending to push the hat away, she pulled it toward her and stroked the brim with a trembling fingertip.
“You’re way too serious,” Rasa persisted.
Why should I listen to advice from someone I’ve known all of two hours? Someone who doesn’t have a clue what kind of person I really am?
“You should try to be friendly.” Rasa’s hand squeezed hers gently. “Maybe then you’d meet some interesting people and move on.” Her voice softened. “Betsy says you bury yourself alive.”
“Maybe I don’t want to move on.”
“Or maybe you just need a helping hand.”
Amy yanked her hand free and drained the last of her Flirtita. “Betsy’s a big one to talk.”
“Hey, he just looked at you again.”
Amy didn’t smile or look his way or even look at Rasa, who was staring at her way too intently now. The words dead and bury had Amy too tense and scared to think what she should do. She had to get out of here. She had to get back to her safe, controlled life.
“Rasa, you said one drink and we’d go to dinner.”
“And I haven’t finished my drink.”
“Because you won’t drink it.”
Rasa laughed.
“If only Betsy were here,” Amy said.
“You wouldn’t be here if Betsy were here. You two would be at that boring restaurant she told me about. You’d be taking a rash of heat over the cell phone from your number-one client, and she’d be reading her book.”
“Exactly.”
“Ouch.” Rasa laughed.
Betsy Pinkley, Amy’s best friend, who had mousy brown hair and thick glasses and who was even duller than she was, if that were possible, had ditched her to stay home and read because her allergies had flared up.
Tonight when Amy had dropped by Betsy’s apartment to pick her up, a red-eyed Betsy had been sitting on her couch in her pajamas dabbing tissues at her running eyes and nose.
“It’s the cedar again. I’m too sick to go out,” she’d said miserably. “But not to worry. I didn’t call you because Rasa can go with you instead.”
“Rasa? I don’t know a Rasa.”
“My next-door neighbor’s baby sister.” Betsy had blown her nose messily and then plucked handfuls of tissues from the box beside. “Rasa’s from out of town. Her brother Trell had a date, and she’s dying to see the action on Sixth Street. So I thought since you want to go out and she wants to go out…bingo!”
“I don’t want to go out with just anybody! And not to Sixth Street! I want to have dinner with you. Just you.” Amy’s cell phone rang. When she saw it was her mother, she didn’t answer it.
“Don’t you care that I’m sick at all? I made these special arrangements for you even when my head was killing me.”
“Of course I care. But can’t you pop an allergy pill?”
“Wait until you meet Rasa,” Betsy said.
“I’m leaving.” But just as Amy switched off her cell phone and headed for the door, the bell rang and Rasa burst inside, only to stop and stare at Amy. Rasa wore a revealing, low, tight red sheath and lots of gold bangles while Amy was swathed from head to toe in gray silk.
“Rasa, this is Amy. Amy—”
“Glad to meet you, baby, but, hey… I thought we were gonna have some fun tonight. What’s with the gray shroud?” She turned to Betsy. “How come you didn’t tell me your friend was a nun?”
“What?” Amy said. “Now I’m being stood up and insulted!”
Rasa rolled her almond-shaped eyes. “Hey, sorry. Sometimes I come on a little strong.”
“A little?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’re great looking. The question is—why are you hiding that fact?” Rasa lifted her brows and then walked around Amy, studying her figure closely. “Lucky for you, we’re about the same size. I bought a couple of hot new outfits this afternoon that will do wonders for you.”
“I…I don’t do hot.” Amy felt the blood drain from her face as guilt squeezed her chest in a vise. It had been a long time since she’d worn dramatic clothes to draw attention to herself. Lately, though, she’d been sick of her dull wardrobe. “Truly, all I want is a quiet dinner.”
Instead of listening, Rasa raced outside. Amy heard a car door slam. Then Rasa burst inside again. She was as quick in her movements and thought processes as Lexie had been.
Amy couldn’t help being reminded of Lexie’s laughing face as she’d jumped into the boat that last, fatal night.
Rasa ripped open a paper bag and held up two spandex skirts and blouses the size of postage stamps. “Aren’t they just darling?”
Lexie would have loved them. The old Amy would have loved them.
“Black spandex?” Amy said.
“This