He loved women—their clothes, their paraphernalia, their scent. He liked their giggles and their tears, and, even though it often drove him to distraction, their persistent attention to detail. He liked everything about them that made them different from himself, from their maddening habit of paying with change in favor of breaking a bill to the way their bodies were made. In Lucky's educated opinion, about the best thing God ever created was a woman's skin.
But out of bed they were a royal pain.
Take that young divorcee in Marshall, for instance. She was a complainer, and could whine until the sound of her voice was as offensive as fingernails on a chalkboard. The only time she wasn't griping about something was when they were in bed. There, she purred.
Another of his most recent liaisons had been with a gold digger. If he didn't bring her a gift each time he saw her, any kind of trinket, she swelled up with affront. Only hours of loving could coax her back into a good mood. Then there was the clerk at the drugstore. In bed she was clever and innovative. Out of it, she wasn't as smart as the nearest fence post.
Susan Young was just the opposite. She was smart. Maybe too smart. He suspected that she was withholding sexual favors not because of any moral scruples, but because she wanted him standing at the altar all dressed up in a tuxedo and watching her as she glided down the aisle of First Methodist Church in a long white gown to the tempo of the wedding march from Lohengrin.
After his discouraging meeting with Chase that morning, Lucky had kept his lunch date with Susan at the home she shared with her parents. Her father, George, was CEO of the bank that held Tyler Drilling's note. They lived in an impressive home on one-and-a-half perfectly manicured acres in the center of town. As soon as the maid had cleared away the dishes, George had returned to the bank and Mrs. Young had excused herself to go upstairs, leaving Lucky alone with Susan.
He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Smacking his lips when they pulled apart, he sighed. "Better than Clara's strawberry shortcake," he said, referring to the sumptuous dessert the housekeeper had served.
"Sometimes I think all you want from me is kisses."
His eyes moved over her, taking in her affected pout and the small, impudent breasts that jutted against her blouse. He covered one with his hand. "That's not all I want."
Susan squirmed away from him. "Lucky Tyler, will you behave? My mama's upstairs, and Clara's in the kitchen."
"Then let's go someplace else," he suggested on a burst of inspiration. Their house was formal and somber and unpleasantly reminded him of a funeral home, which put a damper on romance. In that environment it was little wonder Susan was holding out. "I've got to drive over toward Henderson this afternoon and see a man on business. Why don't you come along?"
She declined with an adamant shake of her head. "You drive too fast. With the top down, my hair gets blown all over the place."
"Honey, with what I have in mind, it'll get messed up anyway," he drawled, pulling her against him again. This time she participated more actively in their kiss. By the time they came up for air, Lucky was hot and ready. Then Susan had ruined his arousal by mentioning her father.
"Promise not to get mad if I tell you something." Experience had taught him that those words usually prefaced something that was going to make him mad, but he gave her his promise anyway. She didn't meet his eyes as she played with the buttons on his shirt.
"Daddy's worried about me spending so much time with you."
"Why's that? He seemed polite enough at lunch."
"He's always polite. But he's still not thrilled about our going out lately."
"Why not?"
"You do have a reputation, you know. A reputation that nice girls like me aren't even supposed to know about."
"Oh yeah?" She wasn't so nice that she balked when his hand ventured beneath her full skirt and stroked the back of her thigh.
"He asked me what your intentions were, and I had to tell him that I honestly don't know."
He was already bored with the topic of George Young and entranced by the expanse of smooth thigh he was caressing, but the word "intentions" set off alarms inside his head. He withdrew his hand and took several steps away from her. While she had his undivided attention, she drove home her point.
"Of course, Daddy never discusses his banking business with me," she said with a calculated batting of eyelashes, "but I get the distinct impression that he's afraid to extend a loan to a man who isn't settled down. You know, married and all."
Lucky hastily consulted his wristwatch.
"Gee, it's getting late. If I can't talk you into going with me, I need to get on the road. Don't want to miss that appointment." He headed for the door.
"Lucky?"
"Hmm?"
Moving to face him and looping her arms around the back of his neck, she arched the front of her body against his. She came up on tiptoe and placed her lips near his ear, whispering, "Daddy would almost have to extend your loan if you were family, wouldn't he?"
He had given her a sick smile and beat a quick retreat, after promising to join them for dinner that evening at seven-thirty. He wasn't ready to get married. Not to Susan. Not to anybody. Not by a long shot.