The Girl with the Golden Gun. Ann Major

anything, not even you, you big lying lug! And you can flush that engagement ring down the toilet for all I care!”

      “What I’d do? You were the one snoopin’.”

      “If you loved me, you would have asked me already,” she said. “I wouldn’t have had to snoop.”

      “I was going to ask you tonight,” he admitted.

      “Then why don’t you?”

      “’Cause I’m not in the mood anymore.”

      Her face went as white as his. “Well, neither am I.”

      “You satisfied now?” he growled.

      “Perfectly.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and ran down the hall.

      Her quick, strangled sobs cut him to the quick because Abby wasn’t one to cry. He almost ran after her. Then his front door opened and slammed so hard his whole house shook.

      He was halfway to the door when he stopped midstride. When her car didn’t start, he knew she was giving him time to chase after her. For some reason that he didn’t understand, his broad shoulders sagged, and he stayed put.

      Suddenly Shanghai wished he was in a chute in a rodeo arena, his gloved palm tightly wrapped in a yellow rope, about to nod at the chute boss. He craved the excitement of the arena and the adrenaline-jingling moment when the gate swung open. He craved the fans’ shouts, the clanging bell, and the bull’s plunging jumps and wild snorts. He knew what to do when he was in a life-and-death battle to stay on a bull.

      Bull riding was easy compared to women.

      When Shanghai rode well, sometimes the bull and he became one. On nights he got it right, nothing else mattered, nothing at all.

      After Mia had seduced him and then left him for Cole and then had the baby, Shanghai had told himself he’d gotten lucky again, that he was free, that he had his bull riding, his ranch, his horses and his rough stock. There had been plenty of women on the road to make him forget. Only the more women he’d used to forget her, the emptier he’d felt. Even after he’d met Abby, late at night he’d still feel lonely.

      He’d ignored his loneliness and had told himself that when he retired he would marry Abby and be a rough stock contractor. He’d settle down and raise the best rank bulls in the business, the best saddle broncs, too. They’d have lots of kids, too. They’d be happy.

      Shanghai… Again he felt powerfully connected to Mia’s ghost.

      “Leave me the hell alone!” he yelled.

      Mia’s voice cut him like a knife.

      For a couple of seconds the house was quiet. Then his cell phone rang.

      He picked it up and read Abigail in bright blue letters. It rang two more times. She was out in the car, calling him already. Inhaling a deep breath, he flipped it open.

      “Hi, darlin’,” he said softly, feeling sorry for her somehow.

      “I’m sorry,” she said.

      “You’re forgiven,” he whispered but in a tight, unconvincing voice. The fight wasn’t really her fault and he knew it. She always called and apologized.

      “Are the steaks all burned up?” she murmured.

      “If they are, I’ll take you out.”

      “I have a better idea,” she said, her voice honey-soft.

      He smiled in spite of himself. He knew exactly what she meant. She thought that if she got him in bed, she’d get him to pop the question.

      She deserved better. He didn’t know what to say. Feeling doomed, he opened his front door and stood in the doorway. She came flying out of her car and into his arms.

      But as his mouth closed over hers, he heard his name whispering in the pines.

      Mia’s voice sounded as small and scared as a frightened little girl’s, and it tugged at him on some soul-deep level. She’d used that same voice when she’d pleaded for him to save Spot.