The Boy Toy. Eugenia Riley

felt her face smarting. “You know what I mean! My point is, you did a good job, and that’s commendable.”

      He tipped his hat to her. “Hot damn, thank you, ma’am.”

      “Now who’s being prickly?” she accused.

      “Actually, I appreciate the vote of confidence. And I do like my job.” With deliberate relish, he continued, “There’s nothing like getting your hands on a hot little engine, feeling it purr and throb to life, revving it up and feeling the power surging—”

      Now Allison did groan aloud. “Will you stop it?”

      “Stop what?” he inquired innocently.

      “All the service bay sexual innuendo. I’ve had my fill of it.”

      “Sex on the mind, eh, sugar?”

      “You mean sex on your mind,” she shot back.

      “Lady, I’ve been talking cars.”

      “Cowboy, you’ve been talking smut.”

      He grinned unabashedly. “But you’re with me, aren’t you?”

      Oh, yeah, she was with him. “I’m not with you,” she denied aloud. “We’re taking a drive in the country, for heaven’s sake.”

      “Getting hot under the collar, are you?”

      She resisted the urge to comment.

      “You know, in my granddad’s day, taking a drive on the prairie would’ve been grounds for marriage.”

      “My God, you are a dinosaur,” she declared.

      “Hey, I’m only twenty-six,” he protested.

      “Me, too,” she put in, pleased to hear they were the same age.

      He eyed her quizzically. “Really? When’s your birthday?”

      “December.”

      “Hah!” he declared, full of smug superiority. “Mine’s October, which makes me older and wiser.”

      “Get out of here!” she declared.

      “Can’t, ma’am, I’m driving,” he quipped, returning his attention to the road. They were heading northwest on Highway 290, leaving the suburbs behind at a fast clip. “You hungry?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      He feigned a tone of exaggerated courtesy. “Has madam eaten? Does she have plans for the evening?”

      Allison glowered. “No, I generally play catch-up on Wednesday nights.”

      “You’ve got to eat, woman. As a matter of fact, there’s a place I’d like to take you to.”

      “And where is that?” she simpered. “To a bordello in Hempstead?”

      “No, to a genuine restaurant.”

      “Aha! So that was your purpose all along? A date?”

      “A date?” he mocked. “Hell, honey, you offered to buy me dinner.”

      “Now you want me to pay?”

      Pete’s expression gleamed with secret pleasure. “I’m not sure I should answer such a loaded question. But as far as buying dinner is concerned, it’ll be my treat.”

      She rolled her eyes.

      “Let’s just say I want to retain the goodwill of one of our valued customers,” he drawled with exaggerated courtesy. “So what do you say?”

      She glanced out at a large, barnlike establishment looming ahead on their right, with a huge mural of a bull emblazoned on its side. “I say you’re as full of it as that bull.”

      He roared with laughter. “And that’s just where we’re headed, sugar—straight to the bull.” In a cloud of dust, he turned them into the gravelly driveway, which was jammed with pickup trucks and horse trailers.

      She stared skeptically at the sign. “Clem’s Corral? Sounds like a cattle lounge.”

      He pulled them into a parking space next to a huge fire-engine red pickup truck. “My kind of place. Best chicken-fried steak this side of the Pecos.”

      “Oh, brother,” Allison muttered.

      CLEM’S WAS INDEED a redone barn, with sawdust on the floors and old-timers lounging at the antique bar. On a far dais, a small country and western band was playing, “The Devil Came Down to Georgia,” while a few brave souls struggled to dance the fast reel. Beyond them a group of cowboys was cheering, gathered around a lurching mechanical bull where one of their numbers was pitching about and waving his hat.

      “My Lord,” Allison declared. “I thought Gillie’s burned to the ground years ago, and this kind of scene went out with Urban Cowboy.”

      Pete solemnly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “That’s a Dallas girl for you.”

      “Oh, hush.”

      As they passed the bar, the balding bartender waved to Pete. “Hiya, kid. The usual?”

      “Yeah, Joe. Two specials. Two drafts.”

      She turned to him. “Wait a minute. The usual? For two?”

      His blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “Sugar, you can’t think I’ve never brought a woman here before.”

      Allison waved a hand. “Your gall is unbelievable. I mean you ordered for me.”

      He lowered his voice. “Honey, the special’s the only thing they cook here that’s palatable. They serve catfish, but they’ve been out of the tank long enough to grow new whiskers, if you know what I mean.”

      “Whatever.” She glanced about, caught several gruff-looking characters staring baldly at her, and tugged self-consciously at her short skirt. “Look, I’m not dressed for this place.”

      “Honey, you’re dressed to start a stampede,” he assured her. “Fact is, I’m gonna have to fight every man in here for you. Now let’s get settled at a table before the bulls get too restless.”

      Allison shook her head, unable to believe she’d gone out with such a twang-spouting fossil—even if the man was incredibly gorgeous. They seated themselves at a small wooden table off to the side.

      A buxom barmaid sauntered up with their beers. “Hi, handsome,” she greeted Pete.

      “Hi, Willie. How have the saddle tramps been treating you?”

      “Oh, fair to middlin’, and as full of sass as ever.” She inclined her head toward Allison. “See you got another pretty filly on your arm.”

      Pete winked at Allison, then confided to Willie, “Yeah, but the lady’s miffed that I ordered her the special. Tell her about your catfish.”

      Willie leaned toward Allison and whispered confidentially, “Honey, I wouldn’t toss ’em to a pack of starving coyotes.”

      “Thanks, that’s so comforting,” Allison rejoined.

      Undaunted, the waitress sauntered away with a swing of her ample rear. Shaking her head, Allison turned back to Pete. “Where did you dig up this place?”

      “My folks used to bring me and my younger brother here. I was raised on a ranch in Fort Bend County.”

      “Oh, were you?” Allison was pleasantly surprised. So, his cowboy act wasn’t fake. Erin had been right that she might have found the genuine article. It did make sense, she realized. There were a lot of small-spread ranchers in Texas, many of them managing to live just above the poverty level. A rancher’s son might well end up a car mechanic in a nearby large city.

      “You know, my new assistant is from Fort Bend County,” she remarked.