Lyric and Lingerie (Fort Worth Wranglers 1)

Madam TSA continued her very close inspection of the skintight black Lycra. It was like she was searching for a hidden compartment full of dynamite. Lyric could have told her that was a ridiculous idea—it wasn’t as if she could squeeze one more thing into this dress. But the woman must have finally figured that out, because she gave up on Lyric’s boobs and moved lower—to hover over her hips. With the amount of concentration she poured into the job, Lyric could only presume the agent was evaluating the prospect that Lyric had bathed in lighter fluid before she’d struggled into her Semtex-coated Spanx. Little did the woman know, Lyric wasn’t wearing Spanx—or any other underwear—flammable or otherwise. Panty lines were so Mistress Kailana.

Still, as the ridiculous examination continued—the woman starting all the way back at her head and slowly working her way down again—Lyric had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that the only weapon at her disposal was her rapier wit—something that was entirely too sharp to bring out at a TSA checkpoint.

Behind her, two other agents strip-searched Lyric’s red-soled, leopard-print shoes, in the event she’d somehow managed to hide C-4 in the pencil-thin heels. She could have told them the only thing lethal about those shoes were the brutally high arches and the pinky-toe-squishing insteps, but somehow she didn’t think the agents would appreciate her sense of humor. As they dipped a small cloth in some clear liquid and ran it around the shoes, she shook her head. If she actually were a terrorist, would she pick the most expensive shoes she’d ever worn to blow up the world? Not even close.

Besides, if her mother had been here to see the molestation of the Loubies she’d sent Lyric as a why-don’t-you-ever-dress-up-to-impress-your-boyfriend present, the TSA would have needed riot gear. Lyric sucked in a deep breath at the thought. And at the sudden understanding that her mother would go ballistic when she heard that Rob the Knob was history. Lyric didn’t even want to think what would happen—to any of them—if Daddy wasn’t there to talk Mother off the ledge.

With one final sweep of the cloth, the shoes were given a clean bill of health.

After feeling Lyric up—which, sadly, was the most action she’d had since Rob’s stars had aligned with Mistress Kailana’s—the agent finally decided that Lyric wasn’t about to explode.

Slipping her feet back into the pinky-toe-squeezing, blister-inducing torture devices, Lyric hobbled gingerly toward her gate, just as the booming voice overhead said, “Final boarding call for American flight 7149, nonstop Honolulu to Dallas.”

She hobbled faster. The fifteen minutes security had spent frisking these ridiculous shoes—and her—was going to end up costing her the chance to say good-bye to her father.

Desperate now as she watched the gate agent close the door that led to the tarmac, Lyric kicked off her shoes, grabbed them on the fly, and ran flat-out for the gate. Reaching it just as the attendant finished locking the door, she brandished her boarding pass like a dagger to his chest. “Wait! That’s my flight.”

“It’s too late. The plane’s leaving.”

“You don’t understand. I have to be on that plane.”

The man shook his head. “You don’t understand. The door is already closed. You’ll have to wait for the next flight.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs as the panic she’d held at bay for the last hour refused to stay vanquished one second longer. “My father is dying. There is no next flight for me.”

His face softened, and he sighed. He didn’t reach for the door, didn’t offer to stop the plane, but she knew she almost had him. Clearing her throat in an effort to get rid of the frog that had taken up residence there the moment she’d heard the fear in her mother’s voice, she leaned forward, catching his eyes with her own. “Sir, do you have children?”

His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “Yes. I have two.”

“And how would you feel if they didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to you because they were two minutes too late for the last flight out?”

For long seconds, he didn’t say anything. But then he reached behind him and opened the door. “You’d better run. And if anyone asks, tell them Bobby let you through.” She glanced down at his nametag. It read Jack, but who was she to argue?

Lyric raced out the door, her hands clutching her breasts to keep them from giving her a black eye—or worse, knocking her out cold. She got to the plane just as the ground crew was starting to roll the staircase away from the plane door.

“Stop.” It was an order, not a request, as she bounded up the stairs two at a time. On a leap that was part ballet and part grand mal seizure, she hurtled across the three-foot space between the stairs and the still open plane door.

The ominous sound of fabric ripping tore through the air at the same time her toes caught on the bottom edge of the doorframe. She had one brief moment to regret the impulse that had made her think she could give her ballet-dancing twin sister a run for her money—right before she face-planted on the shiniest penny loafers she had ever seen.

As she lay there contemplating what she could do for an encore, a breeze wafted over her bare ass and she looked back to see six inches of her dress hanging off the storage cupboard next to the door. Since the dress hadn’t had six inches of fabric to begin with, this was particularly concerning.

Not only had she swan dived into airline infamy, but her dress had ripped to kingdom come. Definitely not her best day.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

Before she could figure out how to regain her feet—God knew regaining her dignity was not an option—clapping rang out above her. Praying for the universe to swallow her whole, Lyric looked up and saw two members of the crew staring at her with a mixture of horror and awe.

Clearly the universe was too busy to bother with her measly problems.

The male flight attendant was the first to regain his voice. “I give it a seven and a half.” He turned to the pilot. “What does the Russian judge say?”

The man turned sparkling blue eyes on her and said in a West Texas drawl that reminded her too much of her father’s, “A five if she’s sober and a ten if she’s drunk.”

Lyric clambered to her feet. The pilot’s eyes grew wide, and she was sure she heard him whisper to the flight attendant, “I change my vote to an eleven,” right before he turned and dived into the cockpit.