The Pregnant Proposition. Sandra Paul
in a costume?”
“Not this wig,” Misty said confidently. “It cost almost as much as a small car. I wear it all the time when my hair won’t behave and no one knows it’s a wig at all.”
“Yeah, but you’re a blonde,” Ally said, feeling compelled to point out the obvious. “I’m a brunette.”
Misty airily waved that aside. “So you’ll be blonde for a night. Believe me, nothing alters a woman’s appearance more dramatically—or gathers more male attention—than changing your hair color.” She pondered for a moment, then amended, “Except, maybe, showing off your cleavage. Or your legs. Or your bottom in a tight skirt.” She nodded decisively. “And we’ll do all that, too. Or at least—” her engaging grin dawned ”—you will.”
Panic fluttered in Ally’s stomach. “Wait a minute. I’m not sure—”
“Don’t worry,” Misty said. “When it comes to getting fixed up, I am sure. So be prepared to sizzle.”
Chapter Three
“When evaluating a bull for stud, after testicle size, the next item to consider is the behavioral health of the animal. Is he unwontedly distracted by males in the vicinity?
“A bull whose territorial instincts are overly developed will need to be kept separate from other males. Otherwise, his energy will be expended in fighting, rather than in mating….”
—Successful Breeding: A Guide for the Cattleman
Troy Michael O’Malley had a definite fondness for Big Bob’s Bar and Grill.
Not because the place was at all attractive. Like its owner Big Bob Gallarza—who couldn’t beat a bull dog in a beauty contest—the outside of the barnlike building was worn and weathered. Inside, a scarred mesquite bar dominated one end of the long, smoky room, while three billiard tables on which “Do or Die” tournaments were featured every Friday night jammed up the middle. To hide his lack of cleaning skills, Big Bob scattered straw over the peanut shells on the wooden plank floor, and diners—if eating at Big Bob’s could be termed dining—were squeezed in at small tables at the back, disconcertingly close to the doors marked “Gents” and “Gals” in chipped gilt lettering.
Yet, despite its lack of ambience, Big Bob’s Bar and Grill did plenty of business, simply by featuring the four essential “b’s” of the typical Texas male: booze, beef, babes and barbecue sauce. The booze Big Bob plunked down on his scarred mesquite bar came at reasonable prices, and the steaks were thick and reasonable, too. The majority of the rodeo bunnies perched on the bar stools were also reasonable; just out for a good time with a big-buckled cowboy.
But far and away what made Big Bob’s place really special—at least in Troy’s opinion—was the barbecue sauce. After all, booze, babes and a decent steak could be found anywhere in Texas—anywhere in the world, for that matter, from run-down cantinas in Tijuana, to exclusive resorts in the Swiss Alps. But nowhere else could a man find sauces like Hot Pecos, Lil Red’s, Risky Rita’s, Babalou and dozens more, all crowded—neck to shiny bottleneck—on Big Bob’s pint-size tables.
Seated in a shadowy corner, Troy studied the impressive array of colorful bottles before him. He pushed aside a yellow No Butts, and a blue Eagle Eye, searching for—ah, there it was!— Smokin’ Jo’s, his longtime favorite.
Picking up the tall brown bottle, Troy hefted it in his hand, gazing fondly at the smoking six-gun pictured on the yellow label. This was the sauce he’d tipped back his chair to recommend to a redhead and her two friends at a nearby table a couple of Friday nights ago. He’d been bored, and the flirty, knowing expression on the redhead’s face as she considered his sauce had boded well as a distraction for the evening.
Until Luke Cabrerra horned in with a recommendation of his own.
“Smokin’ Jo’s?” Luke had declared with an exaggerated, good ole boy drawl and an equally exaggerated lift of his eyebrows. Turning from the pool table where he’d been shooting against his twin, Luke rested his stick on the floor while he’d eyed the bottle in the redhead’s hand. With a reproving shake of his dark head, he’d said to her, “I don’t think so. Not for a sweet little thing like you. Quick Draw is more your style,” he added, reaching over her shoulder to pick up a slim green bottle. Looking at the label, Luke read as if quoting Scripture, “'Best barbecue sauce west of the Atlantic and east of the Pacific.’ Now this is a sauce with kick.”
“Kick?” Hell, if Luke Cabrerra wanted kick, Troy would be glad to oblige—by kicking the other man’s ass. Relishing the task, Troy rose to step closer to the woman, also. And when Cabrerra bent over the table to offer his selection to her, Troy leaned over the table, too, and gently but firmly pushed the green bottle aside.
“C’mon, Cabrerra,” he said. “Don’t insult the lady. She’s looking for something that’ll make her toes curl. Something hot, yet smooth and satisfying. Something that will leave her with a warm glow inside. Like Smokin’ Jo’s.”
Troy earned a flutter of the redhead’s false eyelashes and giggles from her friends in reward, but before he could press his advantage, there went Cabrerra, butting in again.
“Smooth and satisfying?” Luke snorted, leaning in closer. “Everyone knows Smokin’ Jo’s is all bitch and no bite. Why, that sauce is so thick it takes forever to get out of the bottle.”
Troy leaned in closer, too. “So?” he said softly. “Who wants a sauce that’s so weak, it pours out after one small shake?” He added deliberately, “Like yours does.”
Luke stiffened. Flinging down his pool cue, he clenched his fists, demanding through gritted teeth, “Are you saying my sauce has no staying power?”
“Ya got it.”
Cabrerra had lunged then—or maybe Troy had. He wasn’t really sure. All he knew was that by the time the sheriff arrived, beer, blood and barbecue sauce were scattered everywhere.
The redhead and her friends had scattered, too. Troy hadn’t seen her since and he had a sneaky suspicion she wouldn’t be back. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was that although Luke was a bit younger and a bit taller than Troy—and neither had ever quit swinging—Troy figured he’d won the fight. After all, as he’d pointed out to Luke as they were led away by the sheriff, Troy’s barbecue bottle had made it through the melee unbroken, while Luke’s—weak as it was—had been reduced to a thin, red puddle on the floor.
Shaking his head in remembered pity for the other man’s humiliation, Troy upended Smokin’ Jo’s over his steak and gave the bottle a couple of firm taps. Half a minute later, he administered a couple more. Okay, so maybe the sauce was thick. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—not for a man with patience. And Troy had plenty of patience. All the O’Malleys had when it came to getting something they wanted.
He hit the bottle again. Take his grandfather, for example. For more than sixty years Old Mick had waited to get back Bride’s Price from the Cabrerras. Troy was determined the old man wouldn’t wait one more year—one more month, if possible—for his lifelong goal to come true. Not only for Mick’s sake, but for Troy’s, as well.
Because ranching, like bull riding, was in Troy’s blood—what he’d been born to do. And Mick had finally—finally—agreed to honor the promise he’d made when Troy was a kid, to turn the management of the huge family spread over to Troy.
Just as soon as Troy handed over the deed to Bride’s Price.
Yep, Mick was holding up his side of the bargain. “I’ve put my lawyer on to it,” he’d told Troy just a week ago. “You’ll have controlling interest in the Running M in a couple of weeks, and as soon as you close the deal on that other damn property, I’ll tell that new foreman I hired he’ll have to move on.”
Troy slapped