A Wild Red Rose (3 page)

Clint swore the temperature must be ten degrees hotter than the rest of the house. Maybe it was only him. Regardless, he would be more comfortable if he took off his clothes right now. Might be the plan.

Renee took the wine from Clint’s hand and sat the bottle on the dresser, also made of fake bamboo. “Do you like what you see?”

“Every single bit of it. Hot in here.”

“Then, let’s get you out of those clothes.”

****

Bodey was right. Clint should have eaten something in advance. Round one went fast and furious, but Renee soon had him pumped up for round two. That woman knew more tricks than a bareback rider—which she had been part of the time. Her pelvic muscles were so strong, he swore at one point she’d nearly squeezed off his dick, but no, she’d merely milked him of every ounce of his vital fluids.

Thankful for his gymnastic training and his stamina, he’d needed both in excess tonight. Now, Renee wanted to play the “name that scar” game. Women, when they got up close and personal to his body, always did. He answered her questions as briefly as possible—“Cheyenne Frontier Days—zigged when I should have zagged”, “Houston Stock Show—a mite too slow”, “PBRA finals—took a hit for Bodey.” Man, after all that exercise, he was parched and starving.

“Mind if I go out and look for some grub, Tiger?”

“If you find anything, bring some for me. We can eat together in here.”

Though it seemed a little silly considering they were alone, Clint pulled on his pants to go forage in the kitchen. He got a plate that appeared to be platinum-ringed wedding china from a leaded-glass cupboard and filled it with what he could find. The refrigerator yielded a bunch of red grapes in fairly good condition and two kiwis that looked disturbingly like a man’s balls until he cut them into slices. He found a bag of cheese cubes that might have been left over from a party. Cheddar, Swiss, and jalapeno, he thought. The bread drawer held Melba toast rounds, but no bread. He arranged the fruit and dry toast around the edge of the platter and dumped the cheese cubes in the center. That would have to do because not much else appeared to be available.

Clint started to take two matching wine glasses from the cupboard, but stopped himself. Tonight, he was only a lonely, unsophisticated cowpoke. Balancing the plate on his fingertips, he returned to the tiger’s lair. Sitting up with the striped sheet barely covering her privates, Renee rested on a mound of pillows with a motif of jungle leaves.

“Dinner is served, Madame—but first the fine beverage.” Clint set the platter on the dresser top and worked the cork out of the wine bottle. “Bodey’s stuff. Woo-eee, no cap.”

He took a swig and passed the bottle to Renee. She put her lips to the rim and swallowed in a way that made him randy all over again. He should eat first before he passed out and humiliated himself.

Placing the platter between them on the bed, they nibbled and talked. He told her another brief scar story ending with, “Yeah, Bodey and I—Bodey and me had some real good times.” Years of prep school grammar and diction lessons tripped him up now and then.

“What do they pay you for such dangerous work, my championship bullfighter?”

“Oh, about $150,000 a year, plus some special prizes if I win a competition. But what with paying my travel expenses and havin’ a little fun on the road—Vegas can sure suck you dry—some years, I can barely pay my taxes. Got a bit put aside for a doublewide on a piece of land I own, and this is gonna be my last year of bullfighting. I promised my mama and daddy I’d quit and come into the family business after ten years.”

“What sort of business does your family own, Clint?” Renee nibbled on a cheese cube like a pretty white rat, but he could tell the income of a bullfighter had disappointed her.

“We got a grocery business in San Antonio. My dad made me work with him every summer—after school, too, stocking shelves and such. We lived over the store.”

All but the last parts were true. He’d been at boarding school most of the year, but in summer he’d traveled with his father, sitting in on board meetings around the world, very much the Beck’s Baked Beans crown prince. Beck’s Spicy Beans were very popular in South America, and he’d gotten to practice his Spanish, but in the end, too little playtime caused him to rebel. He’d gotten the MBA to please his father, then simply couldn’t do the corporate heir routine anymore.

He wanted freedom, the open road, and danger, not a corner office for the rest of his life. He’d tried bullfighting on a bet, was damned good at it thanks to years on the gymnastic team, and he’d saved lives—which was more than baked beans ever did. His mother urged Gunter Beck to let the boy have his fling. Gunter Beck made his son, Clinton O. Beck, sign a valid contract stating that ten years hence, or any time before that period ended, his son would report for duty to the family business or have his trust fund revoked.

Mostly, he didn’t give a shit about his trust fund, but his mother hinted more and more often that his iron-willed father needed help with the business whether Gunter would admit it or not.

“My mama says, marry a man with a grocery store and you’ll never go hungry. Might not get rich, but you won’t starve. Maybe I should buy you some groceries before I leave,” Clint said as his past flickered through his mind.

“I don’t need groceries. I dine out with men and otherwise don’t want the temptation of food around. I have to watch my weight.”

Clint had spied the exercise equipment in a spare bedroom when he’d passed along the hall with the tray. The machines were as heavy duty as the ones he worked out on between bullfights.

“I don’t see as you got any weight problem, except for being a little top-heavy. They ain’t real, I guess.” He stared mournfully at her naked breasts.

“Well, to be honest, no. After my divorce, I felt very insecure. Gerry, my second husband, bought them for me. He said I didn’t need them, but I did need a lift, so I went all the way. Don’t you like them?” Renee peered down at herself, thoughtfully rolling a small piece of cheese into a little ball with her fingers.

“They sure are pretty, but they make me sad.”

“How so?”

“Guess you’ll never nurse my babies with those titties.”

Renee, horrified, exclaimed, “I don’t plan on nursing anyone’s babies! Eve will ruin her figure, wait and see. You did use a condom? I know I put the first one on you, but what about the second time?”

“Didn’t mean to spook you. ’Course I used a condom. We don’t know each other that well a’tall to go without. You are on the pill, ain’t you?”

“No.”

Clint took a turn at being horrified. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t gotten the second one on as snugly as he liked.

“I use a diaphragm and a spermatocide. The pills make me retain water and give me nausea.”

“Oh, good. I didn’t know anyone used those anymore. My mama said I came into the world because of a loose diaphragm, the best mistake she ever made.”

“You’re an only child?”

“Heck, no. I got older sisters, both married with kids. Takes the heat off of me to reproduce until I get hitched.”

“I’m not interested in marriage.”

Now, that was a damned lie according to Bodey. What Renee meant was she didn’t want to be the wife of a bullfighter or help to run a grocery store. That sort of irked Clinton O. Beck. He’d be plenty good enough for her if she knew his real net worth. Somewhere along the line, this fabulous woman had been spoiled for the ordinary pleasures of life and turned into a man-eater. He had half a mind to teach her people could be happy without great gobs of money. He met them every day when he was out on the circuit, some of the best people on earth. Yet another reason why leaving the rodeo for the conniving business world depressed him.

Renee set the platter aside and kicked off what little covering she had. She stretched her body out full length. Clint watched. He’d never known a woman who had endured a Brazilian wax before. Must have hurt like hell. Most of the girls he knew had bikini waxes to go with low-slung jeans and sexy underwear, but nothing like this. The remains of her pubic hair were a dark auburn shade, not as light and bright as the hair on her head, but she’d been born a redhead for certain. He couldn’t remove his eyes from that little fringe.

Renee took the small ball of cheese and placed it on her navel. Her stomach was so flat the bait didn’t roll off but sat there in the small dip, a tiny temptation.

“Enough talk,” she said. “Here mousey, mousey, come eat me.”

Clinton O. Beck found himself happy to oblige.

****

Just before dawn, Renee lowered a motorized screen over her terrace to keep the mosquitoes off their bare bodies. They made love outside on the hot pink cushion of one lounger, then switched to the orange-covered one leaving some damp spots behind, to watch the sun rise over her garden.

Thick plantings of bamboo on three sides of the yard kept the first rays from penetrating, but eventually, pots of hibiscus with blooms of red, lemon, and peach emerged from the gloom. An interesting piece of statuary sat in the center of a small, grassy area. Clint assumed it was a takeoff of the Mannekin Pis he’d seen in Brussels, but instead of a small, chubby child urinating into a fountain, the statue of a full-grown man, life-sized, with the body of a Greek god, pissed into an elegant copper birdbath. Both of his hands directed the spray of his giant penis. Water dripped from the sides of the birdbath onto a circle of ferns reminding him a little of Renee’s Brazilian wax job. For a minute, words failed Clint Beck.

“Never seen nothing like that before,” he finally managed.

“I studied art in college. The statue is based on a drawing I once made of a—friend.” She’d almost said her personal trainer, the one her first husband had caught her screwing.

“My first husband, the heart surgeon, Elias Bouchard, hated it. I had to put the thing into storage for a while, but Gerry didn’t mind. He made his money off of oil royalties, and for an older man, was very broad-minded. Too bad he didn’t last. Had a heart attack practically on top of me. Mixed Viagra with his medication. Even Elias couldn’t bring him back.”

The sun of a Louisiana June boiled up higher into the sky. Clint had a feeling all this information about her rich husbands might be Renee’s way of telling him this had been fun, but now she had to get back to serious spouse hunting. He should return to Bodey’s place, too, and try to get some sleep and a good breakfast before schooling the newbie bullfighters in their moves.

Whatever possessed him to say, “May I come over again tonight? I think I might have an interesting proposition for you.” Damn, he should have said “deal”.

Renee didn’t appear to notice the big word usage. “I’m always up for interesting propositions, Clinton O. Beck, but don’t call before three. I need my beauty rest.”

“Darlin’, you couldn’t get more beautiful.”

She smiled like a cat full of cream and ready for another full saucer.

Chapter Three

“You’re going to do what!” Bodey Landrum shouted as Clint Beck helped himself to an oversized portion of scrambled eggs from the breakfast buffet in the bunkhouse.

“I thought I’d take Renee around on the circuit with me for a few months, try to break her of some of her bad habits. Not that sharing my bed will be any hardship.”

Bodey lowered his voice since all the students craned their necks to listen in. “If Renee sees that fancy rig of yours, that old Corvette like the one I got back in Texas, she’ll do a computer search to see what you’re really worth. All those
Millionaire’s Son Fights the Bulls
stories are gonna pop up, and you are doomed. I know she Googled me. If I hadn’t been so in love with Eve, she might have taken me down. Before you know it, you’ll be married to her.”

“Would that be such a bad thing? You know I live for danger.” Clint put two bran muffins studded with raisins on his plate and picked a ripe banana out of the fruit bowl. He passed over the bacon and home fries.

“Yes, yes, it would. She’s a man-eater, not your ordinary house cat.”

“I have a plan. I’ll trade rigs with Snuffy for a while—and keep her away from computers if that will make you happy.”

“Have you ever been in Snuffy’s trailer? It’s a health hazard. There is a reason why he got the Snuffy nickname.”

“I’ll clean it up. We’ll only use the thing for a month or two.”

“And when someone on the circuit calls you the ‘Bean King’, what are you going to say?”

“I’ve got an explanation all worked out. There’s nothing in my program biography about Beck’s Baked Beans, just a blurb that I went to UT and once tried out for the U.S. Olympic gymnastics team. After that, it’s just a list of awards and honors.”

“You know, I thought I was brave man, but Clint, you take the prize buckle with this one.”

****

Snuffy Jones showed even less enthusiasm for the idea than Bodey. “Let you use the Belly Nelle and my trailer? Well, I don’t know. We been together a long time. That would be like letting you sleep with my wife—if we weren’t divorced.”

“Say, I’m doing that rodeo for special kids up in Casper for you, no charge, in a week. You didn’t have to beg me to take the time from my busy schedule. Just let me use The Tin Can and the Belly Nelle until then. You can take my motorcoach.”

“What about the Corvette?”

“Ah, I promised Bodey he could use it. What do you say, Snuff?”

“Maybe I can endure the separation for a good friend who’s saved my balls from bulls a few times.”

“Great. Only one favor. Be sure you spit your chaw into a cup while you use my rig.”

“You got it. I have to move out some of my stuff.”

“I’ll help you before we start class.”

Snuffy’s ancient metal-clad trailer had been rolled by a tornado in Kansas and battered by hail in Texas. The barrelman had painted her affectionate nickname, The Tin Can, on her side. Clint hauled the case of beer and three bottles of whiskey over to his luxury motorhome while Snuffy gathered up his street clothes, costumes, and make-up kit. The Tin Can’s refrigerator held only leftovers from the generous meals provided by Bodey, so Clint loaded up his groceries, too, along with all his bullfighting gear and a week’s worth of clean clothes. Bodey would store his surplus and more upscale clothing. With the transfer completed, Clint figured he still had a lot of work to do before he would be able to coax Renee through the door.