Heaven, Texas Read Free

platform, and everything inside her went still,
    She recognized him at once from his photographs. He stood next to the hot tub like a sultan surveying his harem, and as she watched him, all her deepest and most secret sexual fantasies came to life. This was Bobby Tom Denton. Dear Lord.
    He was the embodiment of every man she'd ever dreamed about; all the high school boys who'd ignored her, all the young men who never remembered her name, all the handsome professional men who complimented her on her clear thinking, but never thought to ask her out for a date. He was a glittering superhuman creature who must have been put on earth by a perverse God to remind homely women like herself that some things were unobtainable.
    She knew from the photographs she had seen that his Stetson concealed a head of thick blond hair, while the brim shadowed a pair of midnight blue eyes. Unlike her own, his cheekbones could have been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor. He had a strong, straight nose, a determined jaw, and a mouth that should have come with a warning label. He was utterly and supremely masculine, and as she gazed at him, she felt the same piercing longing she experienced on warm summer evenings when she lay in the grass and stared at the stars. He shone as brightly, and he was just as unreachable.
    He wore a black Stetson accompanied by snakeskin cowboy boots and a velour bathrobe patterned in red and green lightning bolts. He held an amber beer bottle in one hand, and smoke curled from the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. The skin between the tops of his cowboy boots and the bottom of his robe was bare, revealing powerfully muscled calves, and her mouth went dry as she wondered if he was naked underneath that robe.
    “Hey! I told you to wait by the door for me.”
    She jumped as the burly man who had let her in the house came up behind her, a small boom box in his hand.
    “Stella said you were hot, but I told her I wanted a blonde.” He regarded her doubtfully. “Bobby Tom likes blondes. Are you blond under that wig?”
    Her hand flew to her french twist. “Actually—”
    “I like that librarian's get-up you're wearing, but you need a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes his women with makeup.”
    And breasts, she thought, as her eyes wandered back toward the platform. Bobby Tom also liked his women with very large breasts.
    She returned her gaze to the boom box, trying to grasp the specifics of the misunderstanding between them. As she began to frame a proper explanation, the man scratched his chest.
    “Did Stella tell you we want something a little special, on account of how depressed he's been lately because of his retirement? He's even talking about leaving Chicago to live in Texas year round. The boys and me thought this might give him a couple of laughs. Bobby Tom loves strippers.”
    Strippers! Gracie's fingers convulsed around her fake pearls. “Oh, dear! I should explain—”
    “There was one stripper I thought he might even marry, but she couldn't pass his football quiz.” He shook his head. “I still can't believe that the greatest wideout in the game has hung up his helmet for Hollywood. Goddamn knee.”
    Since he seemed to be talking to himself rather than her, Gracie didn't respond. Instead, she tried to absorb the incredible fact that this man had mistaken her—the last thirty-year-old virgin left on Planet Earth—for a stripper!
    It was embarrassing.
    It was terrifying.
    It was thrilling!
    Once again, he regarded her critically. “Last one Stella sent over came in dressed like a nun. Bobby Tom likes to bust a gut laughing. But she wore a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes makeup on his women. You'd better go fix yourself up.”
    It was long past time to put an end to this misunderstanding, and she cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, Mr.—”
    “Bruno. Bruno Metucci. I played for the Stars back in the old days when Bert Somerville owned the team. 'Course I was never a starter like Bobby