One Hot Texan. Jane Sullivan

many drinks did you have?”

      “Uh…two. No. Three.”

      “Is that three more than you’ve ever had before?”

      “Uh-huh.” She wobbled a little, hunched over, and in her next breath everything that had gone down tonight came right back up.

      VIRGINIA DECIDED there was nothing quite so inelegant as sitting on the bathroom floor of a sleazy country-western bar, hugging a toilet and staring at a wall full of graffiti describing sex acts she didn’t even think were anatomically possible. She’d barely gotten the little paper sanitary thing down on the toilet seat before she’d thrown up all over again.

      She folded her arms on the edge of the toilet and rested her forehead against them, wishing the bumblebees in her stomach would head back to the hive. God had evidently gotten more creative than in the Old Testament days. What did He need with a thunderbolt? All He had to do was get her to toss down three beers and throw up at Cole McCallum’s feet. She may not be dead, but she certainly wished she was.

      She couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to ask Cole to dance, much less what came after. Of course, she had to admit that right now the majority of her courage lay in an unmentionable heap on the barroom floor. That explained her actions. But why had Cole taken her up on it?

      The only reason was that he was exactly what she’d always heard—a wild, sexually insatiable animal who didn’t care where he got his kicks. Logically, that made sense. Somehow, though, the kisses hadn’t felt that way at all. They had felt warm and wonderful and exciting, and she’d wanted them to go on forever.

      But maybe that was part of the game he played. He was gorgeous and charming and highly talented in the kissing department, and that’s what made him so dangerous. He’d grown into a man with ten years more experience in compromising women, and in that time he’d obviously sharpened his tools to a fine edge.

      Men are after only one thing, she heard her mother saying in that chastising voice that had reappeared in her head about the time she headed for the bathroom. And once they get it, they’ll be gone.

      She had to admit that her mother was somewhat of an expert on that subject. Virginia had never known her father. Her mother had—for one night. And her whole life Virginia had been a daily reminder to her mother of the mistake she’d made in trusting a man, and she never missed the opportunity to warn her daughter not to follow in her footsteps.

      Virginia flicked a cigarette butt off her thigh and got up, thinking maybe it was finally safe to move farther than arm’s length away from the toilet. She left the stall, wobbled to the mirror and stifled a scream. Her hair hung in limp strings, her lipstick had melted away, and every fleck of color had fled from her face. She looked like a bag lady with anemia.

      Then she had a terrible thought. What if Cole was still out there? The last thing she wanted to do was humiliate herself all over again by tripping over her own feet or teetering back and forth like an acrobat on a high wire.

      The only way she could hold on to her last few shreds of self-respect was to walk out to that bar, preferably in a straight line, find her purse if it hadn’t been stolen, then go home and forget this night had ever been. And if she saw Cole, she’d simply say good-night calmly and offhandedly as if none of this—from his earth-shattering kisses to her involuntary recycling of three bottles of beer—had been any big deal at all.

      3

      “YOU SHOULDN’T have let your girlfriend drink that much.”

      Cole glared at the bartender. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

      “Whatever. I just want her out of here. Puking customers are bad for business. Where does she live?”

      “I never met her before tonight. I have no idea where she lives.”

      The bartender slapped a purse onto the bar in front of Cole. “Find out.”

      Cole spit out a disgusted breath and unzipped Virginia’s purse. He hauled out a notepad, a checkbook, a pink plastic thing containing feminine hygiene products and one of those little blue-and-white packets of tissues. Finally he located her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license.

      Virginia White. Seven-fourteen Oakdale. Coldwater, Texas.

      Damn. Coldwater was a good twenty miles from here. The chances of her making it home without ending up in a ditch or wrapped around a tree were approximately zero.

      “What are you doing with my purse?”

      Cole looked up to see Virginia staggering toward him. She was even paler than before, her eyes heavy-lidded, and she seemed to be having a hard time focusing.

      “You live in Coldwater?” he asked her.

      “Yeah.”

      “That’s twenty miles from here. You can’t drive home.”

      “Of course I can drive home.”

      She grabbed for her purse, but Cole pulled it out of her reach. He fished out her car keys and stuffed them into his pocket.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Any woman who can’t hold three beers ought to have her license revoked.” He reached into his other pocket, extracted some change and slapped it into her palm. “There’s a phone by the front door. Go call someone to come get you.”

      She stared at him blankly.

      “A friend? Relative?”

      She shrugged.

      “You mean there’s no one you can call?”

      “It’s no concern of yours. Now, may I have my keys?”

      She was right. It was no concern of his. She wasn’t his problem. So why didn’t he just order another beer, forget he’d ever met her and move on to more important matters?

      She held out her hand, her mouth a firm line of determination, but he could tell from her bloodshot eyes and the way she swayed like a willow in a light breeze that she’d be lucky to make it to the front door. A tiny shred of decency he would have sworn he didn’t have nagged at him like an itch in the middle of his back he couldn’t quite reach.

      Cole rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then let out a disgusted breath. He crammed her belongings into her purse and thrust it at her. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

      “What?”

      “I’m taking you home.”

      “That won’t be necessary. I said I’m quite able to drive.”

      “Yeah. Right into a telephone pole.”

      “No. I’m an excellent driver.” Her testiness almost offset the drunken slur in her voice. “I made a hundred percent on my driver’s test when I turned sixteen.”

      “You think a cop’s gonna care about that when he stops you?”

      “I have a perfect driving record. I’ve never had an accident. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”

      Cole wanted to beat his head against the bar. “You’re full of alcohol!”

      “Not completely.”

      She was right about that. “You’re still drunk, though. Believe me.”

      “Yes. Well. Comparatively speaking, that would simply make me a mediocre driver. The road is full of mediocre drivers. Do they take every one of them to jail?”

      He’d already determined she was both naive and insane. Now he could add illogical to the list.

      She held out her hand. “My keys?”

      “Fine.” Cole pulled her keys from his pocket and slapped them into her hand.

      “Thank you very much,”