Or she’d be sloppy drunk, or he’d be impotent. Or something.

“Whew,” she said. “I don’t guess you need boots after all. I’ll call you Tex or Slim or any damn thing you want me to, just so you come when you’re called. How long are you in town for, Dale?”

“I’m not sure. A few days.”

“Business, I suppose. What sort of business are you in?”

“I work for a big corporation,” he said. “They fly me over to look into situations.”

“Sounds like you can’t talk about it.”

“Well, we do a lot of government work,” he said. “So I’m really not supposed to.”

“Say no more,” she said. “Oh, Lord, look at the time!”

While she showered, he picked up the paperback and rewrote the blurb. He killed a thousand miles, he thought, to ride a woman he never met. Well, sometimes you got lucky. The stars were in the right place, the forces that ruled the universe decided you deserved a present. There didn’t always have to be a catch to it, did there?

She turned off the shower, and he heard the last line of the song she’d been singing. “ ‘And Celia’s at the Jackson Park Inn,’ ” she sang, and moments later she emerged from the bathroom and began dressing.

“What’s this?” she said. “ ‘He rode a thousand miles to kill a man he never met.’ You know, that’s funny, because I just had the darnedest thought while I was running the soap over my pink and tender flesh.”

“Oh?”

“I just said that last to remind you what’s under this here skirt and blouse. Oh, the thought I had? Well, something you said, government work. I thought maybe this man’s CIA, maybe he’s some old soldier of fortune, maybe he’s the answer to this maiden’s prayers.”

“What do you mean?”