The Cowboy and the Princess by Lori Wilde Read Free Book Online Page A

your secrets keep getting me in trouble.”
    She said nothing for a long moment. “You are safe.”
    “You’re not going to tell me, huh?”
    “No.”
    Okay, he’d just been put in his place. She seemed to have a queenly skill for slam-dunking him. He couldn’t get over the paradox of her. She was at once supremely self-possessed, yet on the other hand she came across as innocent as a newborn foal. He’d never met anyone quite like her.
    “What is this term ‘lot lizard’?” she asked.
    “Truck stop term for a lady of the evening.”
    “A lady of the evening?”
    Brady shot her a look. Was she for real? “A professional.”
    “What kind of professional?”
    “A woman who exchanges sex for money.”
    “Oh,” she said. “You mean soiled doves.”
    “Huh?”
    “Is that not what Texas cowboys call fallen women?”
    “Maybe in 1875. Where did you get your information about Texas? Louis L’Amour novels?”
    She raised her chin. “Actually, yes, and Zane Grey and Elmer Kelton and Larry McMurtry. I think the term ‘soiled dove’ is much more forgiving than ‘lot lizard.’ One should have compassion for a woman reduced to such desperate straits.”
    “Biscuits and gravy! You’re one in a million, you know that?”
    “Is that a compliment or a complaint?” she asked.
    “Take it either way you want.”
    “I am going to assume you are benevolent since you befriended me.”
    “I wouldn’t say befriended exactly.”
    “You came to my aid in my hour of need. That is the definition of a friend in my book.”
    “Is this the same book where prostitutes are called soiled doves?”
    “Yes.” She primly folded her hands in her lap. “You are making fun of me.”
    “Just a little bit,” he admitted.
    “I could make fun of you if I chose.”
    “Yeah?” He couldn’t resist rising to the bait.
    “Goll dern hell yeah,” she said in her comical version of a Texas accent.
    It was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, such archaic cowboy language coming from such a proper young lady. Brady burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Buttercup. You made my night in spite of the assault and battery you just got me involved in.”
    “I never asked for your help.”
    “Don’t turn all high and mighty on me. I like you.”
    “I like you too,” she said grudgingly.
    “So where are you headed?” Brady asked, giving in to the inevitable. He’d picked her up. He was stuck with her, at least for tonight.
    “I will go wherever you are going.”
    “You have no destination?”
    “I am looking for a new way of life.”
    “And anyplace will do?”
    “Yes. Take me to Jubilee with you.” In that moment, with the tilt of her head, she looked like an ebony-haired Charlize Theron, cool, patrician, smoldering, and totally smoking hot.
    When Brady didn’t argue, that’s when he knew he was seriously screwed.

Chapter Three
    You might be a princess if . . . you identify with Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday .
    T he blurry lights of Dallas slipped away as they headed west toward the town of Jubilee. The radio played softly. A song Annie did not know sung by a man with a gravelly voice. “On the Road Again” flashed green on the digital readout of the satellite radio. Willie Nelson. The song seemed apropos. Fated almost.
    The truck’s engine panted. The tires strummed. The windshield wipers swished, rhythmically wiping away the continuously falling rain.
    Both of Brady’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on traffic. His hair was mussed; his straw Stetson sat on the console between them. The long cut from his ear to his jaw curved like a parenthesis.
    The blood on his face had dried. He was right. It was a superficial wound. Still, she had an overpowering urge to trace her finger along the wound, coo words of comfort to him the way Rosalind had cooed to her whenever she fell ill. A tender touch and soft language could soothe an ache. Why was she feeling that way? Was it because he had swooped